“I guess not?” I say. “Not yet?”

“Are you turning him in now?” she says.

“Did he really turn me in?” I say.

“I just detailed that to you,” she says. “Yes.”

“Then yes,” I say.

“And yet your Reporting Period is expired,” she says.

“Is it?” I say.

“And Mr. Frame is claiming immunity, for being First Individual Forthcoming,” she says.

Three cowboys from WEST amble by, fake-bowlegged.

And tip their huge hats at us.

“Brian, to be frank?” she says. “We were kids together. Remember TinyGhosts, remember BabyDracs, remember we were on the Teen Crew that built those first, hilariously inept Torture Racks? I really don’t want to blow this whistle and have a group gather and kick you to death.”

“I’d also prefer that not to happen,” I say.

“But you see my dilemma, though, right?” she says. “Mr. Frame just ratted you out, for not ratting him out. Who’s to say he might not rat me out if I fail to blow my whistle on you? See what I mean? Bri, are you willing to work with me on this?”

“Very much so,” I say.

“Stay quiet and nod,” she says. “During what follows.”

And blows her whistle.

A crowd gathers.

Amy, trusted by all, gives a disillusioned shake of her sad, dispirited head.

“Moments ago,” she says, “a Regrettable Falsehood was uttered aloud.”

A gasp goes up, and across dozens of faces there runs a ripple of: You’ve got to be kidding, this outrage makes us suddenly so mad.

“By Tom Frame,” Amy says.

She looks at me.

I nod.

“We know this,” Amy says, “because Brian here, doing his duty, though it was difficult, spoke the truth. To me. Just now. Immediately. Don’t be surprised if Mr. Frame, a self-admitted liar, now tries making some further shit up to save his butt.”

The crowd rushes off to find Mr. Frame.

“I just couldn’t blow my whistle on you,” Amy says. “I’ve found you cute since we were little.”

“I’ve found you cute, too,” I say.

Which I haven’t, that much, but it seems like a bad moment to begin violating politeness.

Soon, from the sounds Mr. Frame makes when the crowd finds him over by Vending, it becomes clear that the crowd has found Mr. Frame over by Vending.

Amy and I stand there listening, making silent winces of eek and ouch.

“I guess one never realizes how little one wants to be kicked to death until one hears a crowd doing that exact same thing to someone nearby,” I say.

“The thing is,” Amy says, “Mr. Frame actually did that for which he is right now being punished. So I don’t need to feel bad about that. Do I?”

“No,” I say.