“It worked. You got my attention.” The kid looked shook up. Probably like I looked the day I met Barack Obama. I offered him my hand. “Rollie Stone.”

“I know,” the young man responded, shaking it with teenage enthusiasm, “I know.”

“Now it’s your turn. Who are you?”

“Me?” The question seemed to surprise him. “I’m just Brain—Brain McLane.”

“Brain?”

He nodded. “That’s what they call me—my friends. I mean. It’s Brian, really.”

McLane was so small he almost disappeared beneath his coat and blanket, but he had a broad, somewhat reticent smile that was pretty much overwhelmed by extra-large round wireless Harry Potter specs, as if he was wearing magnifying glasses. It was his chair that caught my attention. If Mighty Chair was my office on wheels, this kid’s chair was a mobile teenager’s room. It was festooned with stickers and signs promoting political causes and metal bands; a variety of tools and toys dangled from hooks. It actually reminded me of an old western Conestoga wagon, with pots and pans dangling along its sides. “I really need to talk to you,” he said with an earnestness in his voice. “It’s really important, really.”

“As long as you can tell me how you did that.” And how to stop anyone else from doing it again. “C’mon, I’ll buy you a cup of coffee.” I caught myself. “Or a Coke or orange juice or something.”

We formed our own mini-wagon train as he trailed me down the street and up the metal ramp into Nonna’s. As was typical at that hour, the coffee shop was warm and noisy. “There’s one in the back,” George yelled to me. As we maneuvered down the narrow aisle between the counter stools and the row of tables, several people greeted me. Coats were hung on the back of most chairs, so several people had to pull in closer to the table as we went by. One well-dressed woman made a show of ignoring us for several seconds as she buried herself in the menu, then expressed her disdain at being disturbed with an overdramatic sigh. I flashed her my winningest smile and whispered in her ear, “Whoosh!”

George deftly removed two chairs from a small corner table, and Brain and I slid in across from each other. I handed him a menu. “Okay, let’s hear it.”

Before responding, he took off those huge glasses. “It’s a disguise,” he said sheepishly. Then he filled me in. Brain was a sixteen-year-old high school junior from New York City. He had taken Amtrak, not the Acela, from the city that morning and needed to be back by early evening.

“I’m assuming your parents know you’re in Washington?”

He rolled his head from side to side. “Sort of,” he said, then looked around suspiciously.

“It’s okay,” I said reassuringly. “Spies only do takeout.”

He leaned closer to me and said urgently, “I’m not kidding, Mr. Stone. You have to listen to me.”

“Okay, all right, I said I will. First, though, tell me how you did that.”