They drove to a shed behind the hockey rink. Mr. Falwell squinted at a tambourine-size ring of keys in the dark and tried three before he got the right one. Surrounded by shovels, extension cords, and a snowblower sat the golf cart, facing away from them as though in a bad mood. The key was in the ignition. Mr. Falwell sat, turned it on, and deftly backed it out of the shed as though he had spent a lot of time practicing by himself. Ben stood leaning on the crutches with his leg tucked up slightly, his hip flexor already starting to get tired. The cart was an ordinary little two-seater, just like the one his dad had let him drive the two times they had played golf with his squash buddies. Light grime filled the capillaries of the white vinyl seats, the hubs had some leaves and sand stuck to them, but otherwise the thing looked very good.

Mr. Falwell said, “You’ve driven one of these?” Ben nodded and they waved goodbye.

Now Ben cruised toward the Den with his cast glowing on and off in the passing streetlamps. People stopped and watched. Usually Ben would have been nervous to go to the Den alone and he always worried about spending money there, but now he didn’t have a choice because he hadn’t had dinner and the Dish was closed.

Before he got there he had three people on the cart with him: Diana Hayes, Tim DuPont, and Freddy Planchon, all sixth- or hard fifth-formers. Ben parked, clicked down the top of the brake pedal, and crutched in as the older kids held the door for him, and then he was answering questions about the game and whether it hurt and how long he was going to have the cast on. Hutch was there, without Evan, and Ben saw him trying to draw close to participate. Ben couldn’t carry a tray and crutch at the same time, so people asked him what he wanted. When he offered money they waved it away.

The Den thrummed. Ben didn’t have to determine the dynamics of the crowd. He just watched everyone slip along, moving from one end of the room to the other: guys wrenching the Street Fighter joysticks, boys timing when they went up to order food so they could stand behind pretty girls, staff behind the counter taking baskets out of the deep fryer and accepting money at the register seemingly without much resentment, as though these tasks were a decent way to spend time.