By the time Cole brought his head up, his teammates were moving away, shrugging their broad shoulders.

A half hour had passed since the explosions in the gymnasium put a quick end to the Killington pep rally. The parking lot still buzzed with emergency vehicles, medical personnel, media, school faculty, and stunned Jackrabbits fans caked in wet pumpkin meat and blood—or what appeared to be blood. Horns honked in all directions. Gridlock jammed the exit of the lot, where students were attempting to make a clean break from campus before any school official could instruct them otherwise. Over the sheriff’s shoulder, Cole saw that a sizable crowd of students still remained. Enduring the cold drizzle, they had gathered about twenty feet behind the sheriff to listen in on the questioning, which Cole was desperate to bring to a close.

“So are we done here, Curtis, or what?”

Curtis flipped his notebook closed. “For now. We can finish this up at the hospital. Right now I want you to go get yourself fixed up.”

“I’m not going to the hospital.”

The sheriff raised an eyebrow. “Say again?”

“No hospital.”

“You got someplace more important to be?”

“Yeah, home, getting ready for tonight.”

“Tonight? I hope you don’t think you’re gonna play a football game tonight after what’s happened.”

“The hell I’m not, Curtis.”

“Sheriff Clark.”

“I’m not gonna chicken out, Curtis. That’s exactly what they want.”

“What who wants?”

“Who do you think? The assholes who did this to me.”

“I thought you just told me they didn’t say anything to you.”

Cole backpedaled, having almost been caught in a lie.

“They didn’t say anything to me. But it doesn’t take a genius to know that whoever did this was trying to keep me off the field tonight. Well, fuck ’em. I’m playing.” The comment brought cheers from the crowd. “It’s gonna take more than a couple missing fingers to keep me off that field.”

“Yeah, you’ve said as much. I heard you made quite a show of yourself at the rally.”

“You got a problem with what I said?” Before Curtis could answer, Cole spotted Coach Hickham weaving his way through the onlookers. “Coach! Can I talk to you for a minute?”

Hickham and the sheriff exchanged a nod.

“I just want you to know that I’m okay to play tonight, Coach.” Cole held up his hand. “This is nothing a few Advil can’t take care of, at least until after the game. ’Least it’s not my throwing hand. If I can just get home and work with the ball a little, I’m sure I can—”

“Cole, just settle down for a minute,” Hickham said. “We can talk about this after you get your hand looked at.”

“Please, Coach. Just give me the chance, and I’m sure I can—”

“Looks like it was cherry bombs and ketchup, Sheriff.”