Without a word, Gavin cleared his throat, tilted his head back, and fired. A moist brownish loogie smacked into the ceiling. From its center it started to droop. The two boys watched in suspense. Would this loogie’s adhesive mucus properties be strong enough? Would it dry into a perfect, elongated, teardrop-shaped stalactiloogie?

The central bulb of loogie slowly sagged. It seemed like only a matter of seconds before the force of gravity would overpower the stickiness unique to Gavin’s phlegm. But then, just when it looked like the ever-thinning ligament between ceiling and mucus bulb could no longer bear the weight…it stopped! Zach stared up in awe. Gavin had produced a perfect three-inch-hanging loogie! Had mucus ever created anything so magnificent before?

Despite the frightening prospect of being so close to the enemy, Zach couldn’t help but nod appreciatively. Bravo, Gavin. You have proven to be without equal in the dark art of loogie launching. You are the True Hanging Loogie Master.

But then Zach braced himself. The magical moment of the perfect stalactiloogie had passed. It was just him and Gavin, alone in the boys’ room.

When Gavin pulled something out of his pocket and tossed it, Zach flinched, assuming whatever Gavin was throwing at him was bad. But it was small and looked harmless. Zach caught it: a piece of caramel wrapped in cellophane.

With the slightest smile, Gavin said, “The secret ingredient.”

The Franklin bus station was a dozen blocks from the square where the rally would take place. Crosby felt tormented by nervousness and regret. He’d never skipped school before. What would his mom do when the attendance office called and asked where he was?

And here he was in this city all by himself. Even the shorter buildings in Franklin were taller than any in Ironville. And there were hardly any trees or grass. Just streets and sidewalks. And stoplights at every intersection. A block away, Crosby could see a crowd of men, many dressed in tan slacks and white or colorful Hawaiian shirts. Some were wearing black helmets and sunglasses or goggles. Others had masked their faces with bandannas. They were carrying shields and white flags with black crosses.

Crosby caught his breath and trembled. He was scared. This wasn’t a video game. Those weren’t avatars on a screen. They were real grown-ups—and many of them were big. Some carried metal rods or clubs. Crosby had walked about six blocks from the bus station, but now he seriously contemplated turning back and taking a bus home.

But the men with the shields and flags were just marching. It didn’t look like they were causing trouble. Besides, Crosby knew it was too late to undo what he’d already done. The next bus to Ironville wouldn’t leave until noon. By the time he got back, school would be over, and his mother would have been called by the attendance office. He was in big trouble no matter what.