Paul zigzagged back and forth as he scanned the street for any sign or clue of a place in which they might need to stand at the appointed time. He clutched his arm and limped as if the pain had traveled through the rest of his body. Sofia searched as well, and Tick joined in. No one said a word, but worry and discouragement hung in the air like wilting clouds. Time was running out. Though confident they were in the right place, Tick didn’t know if that was good enough.

It does not matter; I do not care.

Just make sure your feet find air.

“The word air has to be carved somewhere,” Paul said.

“Yeah,” Tick mumbled as he walked awkwardly along, bent over, searching the pavement.

Sofia had stopped, her arms folded. “I think we’re thinking too much. Or maybe not enough.”

Tick looked at his watch. Six minutes. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, I think all we need to do is jump,” she replied. “Jump up at five o’clock, and our feet will be in the air.”

Tick stood straight, stretched his back. “Hmm. Possible,” he said. But something tickled the back of his brain. Something didn’t seem right. “But what if that’s not it?”

“Got any better ideas?”

Tick looked at Paul, who was still searching, still wincing with every step. His arm looked like a giant purple slug.

“What do you think?” Tick asked.

Paul answered without stopping his hunt. “I thought of that, but . . . I don’t know, I guess there’s nothing else to do. Just keep looking, and if we don’t find anything by the one-minute mark, we’ll stand in the middle of the road and jump at five o’clock.”

“Sounds good,” Tick said, resuming his search.

One minute passed. Two. No sign of anything, anywhere. Two minutes left. Nothing.

“Time’s almost up,” Sofia said, running toward the exact middle of the intersection. “Come on, hurry!”

Paul and Tick joined her. One minute to go. Then, like someone had dropped a water balloon on his head, a thought slammed into his mind. Make sure your feet find air. Make sure your feet find air!

“Your socks and shoes!” he screamed, reaching down before they could respond and ripping off his right shoe, not bothering to untie it. “Take off your shoes!” He pulled off his sock and then moved to his left foot.

Neither of them responded or argued—they did as they were told. Paul used his feet to kick off his shoes, then his one good arm to remove his socks. Anyone watching might have thought they’d gone nuts, or had ants crawling along their skin. But in a matter of twenty seconds, the three of them stood barefoot, the pavement warm on their feet, their shoes and socks gripped in their hands.

“Fifteen seconds,” Sofia whispered through a big breath.