A mumble of agreement.

“Then let’s not waste it,” the man said, and Luke recognized that it was Mr. Boone speaking, some big deal with the city government his parents sometimes had over for dinner.

Mr. Boone clapped his hands and a moment later Luke heard two people step into the circle. They grabbed the hem of his shirt, tugged it off over his head. Luke’s upturned face caught a glimpse of stars, the hooked moon, before the blindfold was fastened back in place.

He began to panic—the fuck was this?—when one of the boys locked an arm around Luke’s bare chest and clasped a hand over his mouth while the other boy wrenched loose Luke’s belt and tugged his jeans down over his thrashing legs. Tugged down Luke’s briefs.

Luke shouted into the boy’s hand as he was lifted up and his pants were pulled over his shoes. They struck the dirt nearby. His belt buckle clattered.

“Evers!” Mr. Boone shouted. “You’ve got some words to answer.”

The hands released Luke. He shivered with his hand over his naked crotch.

Not real, this wasn’t real.

“You are standing on hallowed ground, son. The edge of goddamn greatness, you hear me? I said do you hear me?”

Luke nodded.

“Say it!”

“I hear you.”

A hand struck the back of Luke’s head.

Boone shouted, “Boy, you will address me as sir.”

“I hear you, sir!” Luke’s teeth were chattering. When had the night gotten so cold?

“Do you swear to keep secret all that you see here, boy?”

“Yes, sir!”

“And do you swear to protect it, even with your own life?”

Luke hesitated. Could this man possibly be serious?

“That’s not a good answer, boy.”

“Yes, sir!”

“Very good.”

Boone and someone else began to clap. A moment later and the circle around Luke joined in, a steady one-two, one-two, one-two. Through the noise, Luke heard a new pair of feet approach him. The hands that had stripped him naked now grabbed his wrists and ankles, wrenched his arms back. The clapping grew louder. A new hand rested on Luke’s shoulder—a man’s hand, calloused and dry.

“To seal the oath you have just made, son, this old place will mark you. It hurts us a little so we know it can hurt us a lot. Do you hear, son?”

Luke’s throat had gone dry. It was all he could do to nod his head.

“Very good!” Boone shouted. The clapping grew wild. A cowbell began to ring, a noisemaker rattled, whoops and shouts echoed over open country.

The grip on his wrists tightened. From down near Luke’s feet, Mitchell Malacek murmured: “Whatever you do, don’t scream.”

A sudden, icy pain spread across the back of Luke’s thigh, just below his ass, and a moment later he felt warm blood spilling down his leg. He gasped. Something firm and cool and sticky came to rest on his shoulder, a few inches from his neck. A knife.

“And just like that, you’re in the end zone,” Mr. Boone shouted above the din. “You, my boy, are in the Bright Lands.”