A minute later Mr. Donahue stormed through the exit doors of the athletic wing. He had a giant army thermos of coffee and lit an unfiltered Camel. Somebody had the good sense to not let Coach Moyle be the lone chaperone on this trip, and it turned out Donahue’s National Guard unit was drilling what to do when the Soviets crossed the Brazos, and so welcome aboard. Coach Moyle bummed a cigarette off him, and the two of them smoked in the well of the bus stairs while doing a head count. Then Donahue butted out and claimed the driver’s seat with a dragon’s breath of nicotine and coffee. He turned the engine over on the first try, which was some sort of miracle for this pilgrimage to San Antonio. Just as the doors closed, Sticky, who was wearing blue and gold sweats with his blazer, came wandering down the steps from the cafeteria. Donahue put the bus in gear.

“Let’s give O’Donnell a scare.” And he pulled out of the driveway toward Inwood.

Rob cracked the window the two inches it would go. “Run, Sticky, they’re leaving your ass!”

The bus roared past the “Come on” flying out of O’Donnell’s mouth as he stood on the curb for two seconds before he started running to catch up. Coach Moyle heehawed and backslapped Mr. Donahue, who watched Stick in the driver-side mirror.

“Man, is he slow. Run, white boy.”

“Come on, Steve-o, you can do it!” Rob screamed. Everyone was dying. The bus was going five miles an hour and Sticky was barely pulling alongside the back tires.

“I think I’ll take him out for a couple miles on the tollway.”

“Fine by me.” Moyle waved him over to the bus’s door side. “Damn divers never get in shape.”

Donahue gunned it one last time before reaching the turn for Inwood and popping the door open. Sticky climbed aboard completely winded from jogging fifty yards.

“So glad you could join us.”

“Thanks, Coach, it’s an honor.” No matter the situation, Sticky sweated sarcasm.

“You know, O’Donnell”—Donahue checked traffic while taking a swig of coffee—“if you were an AEF doughboy and that late to the fight, you’d be SOL.”

“What?” Sticky lay down in the aisle like he was dying.

“‘Shit out of luck,’ son. ‘Shit out of luck.’”

As expected, the Ranger bus soon hit rush hour and the exits crept by for Duncanville, DeSoto, and Lancaster. Coach Moyle settled in a back row for a nap next to golden boy Drew Radcliffe. The sophomores kept to the front as Mr. Donahue gulped coffee and cursed traffic.

“What are you listening to, Rob?” Dan asked.

Rob stretched out over Dan like a cat. “The Eagle, but it’s starting to go out of range. Did you bring food? Your mom always packs extra shit.”