I adjusted my red Howlers’ hat against the sun as a batter came to the mound to pop a few into the infield. Hot dog in my lap, I shifted my fingers and mouthed the incantation. The park’s safeguards had risen higher, and I had to punch a hole through them to reach the line. A sudden influx of everafter coursed through me, and Nick stiffened. Excusing himself, he slid past me, muttering about the bathroom. His lanky form hastened down the steps and vanished.

Unhappy, I sent the ever-after energy into the pitcher’s throw. There was a sharp crack as the bat broke. The batter dropped the shattered ash, swearing loud enough that I could hear him. He turned to look at the stands in accusation. The pitcher put his mitt on his hip. The catcher stood. My eyes narrowed in satisfaction as the coach whistled, pulling everyone in.

“Nice one, Rache,” Jenks said, and Captain Edden started, giving me a questioning look.

“That you?” he asked, and I shrugged. “You’re going to get yourself banned.”

“Maybe they should have paid me.” I was being careful. No one was getting hurt. I could make their runners twist their ankles and the wild throws hit players if I wanted. I wasn’t. I was just messing with their warm-up. I poked about in the napkin the hot dog had been wrapped in. Where was my ketchup packet? This hot dog was utterly tasteless.

The FIB captain moved uneasily. “Ah, about your compensation, Morgan…”

“Forget it,” I offered quickly. “I figure I still owe you for paying off my I.S. contract.”

“No,” he said. “We had an agreement. It’s not your fault the class was canceled—”

“Glenn, can I have your ketchup?” I said brusquely, cutting Edden off. “I don’t know how you people can eat hot dogs without it. Why the Turn didn’t that guy give me any ketchup?”

Edden leaned back, a heavy sigh slipping from him. Glenn obediently shuffled about his wad of paper until he came up with a white plastic packet. Face drawn, he looked at my broken arm and hesitated. “I’ll—uh—open it for you,” he offered.

“Thanks,” I muttered, not liking being helpless. Trying not to scowl, I watched the detective carefully tear open the packet. He handed it to me, and with the hot dog balanced on my lap, I awkwardly squeezed the ketchup out. So intent was I on getting it on the right spot, I almost missed Glenn raising his hand and surreptitiously licking a red smear off his fingers.

Glenn? I thought. My face went slack as I remembered our missing ketchup and the pieces fell into place. “You…” I sputtered. Glenn had stolen our ketchup?

The man’s face went panicked, and he reached out, almost covering my mouth before he drew back. “No,” he pleaded, leaning close. “Don’t say anything.”