It was past ten p.m. when the Ranger bus wheeled into Circle the Wagons Cafeteria on the outskirts of Bexar County. The Circle cafeteria, with its big orange neon sign braided and knotted like a lasso (the L in “Circle” was burned out), was run by a Jesuit alumnus, Gerry Tillotson, and his wife, Gail, who seemed to stay in business by the infrequent subsidy of Catholic sports teams visiting the San Antonio area. For a restaurant on the major arterial highway of the state of Texas, it attracted less transient business than the flypaper in the toilets. The dinner rush ended promptly at six fifteen p.m., so the Circle was usually long shuttered at this late hour, except for its weird funereal side lounge, which looked like a bar in a bowling alley. Mr. Donahue had pulled over in Round Rock to let Mr. Tillotson know they were running late, and he’d agreed to keep everything out on steam trays.

“Look.” Rick pointed across I-35 at the candy-cane-striped A-frame of a Whataburger. “We can just hop over there, it will probably be faster—”

“Stow that crap, Dowlearn.” Moyle was cranky hungry. They all were. “Just take your meal ticket and hand it to the cashier inside.”

The boys were starving as the Tillotsons met them at the door, stacks of dinner plates under their arms.

“Now, this is a family establishment,” Mr. Tillotson admonished, and then adjusted his browline glasses with a greasy thumb, “so I expect you all to comport yourselves like gentlemen. Not like your slapdick wrestling team, who should have been put out in a barn. Am I clear, boys?”