“I don’t have to think. That bridge will be finished tomorrow. Kids will die. Kids I know. And we’re sitting here discussing it? Look, it’s like what Tub said, except I didn’t believe him when he said it. This is what I’m here to do, Dad. This is the only thing I’m good at. There are times when you have to do the right thing, no matter how scary. Both of you should know that more than anyone! If I don’t fight now, right now, when am I supposed to fight?”

Jack was staring at me. It was a look of warning, then of questioning.

I did not budge.

Slowly a sad smile crept across his lips. He nodded, once.

“We fight,” he said.

“Fight?” Blinky laughed. “Too humble a word for our despoilings and devastations!”

Dad collapsed onto the sofa with mannequin stiffness.

“Your Shakespeare,” he monotoned. “What about your play?”

With practiced fingers I undid all the rest of the locks. Then I saw the keys to the San Bernardino Electronics van hanging on a hook beside the door. We were behind schedule and wheels would sure help us catch up. I took them before I could think better of it.

“I’m heading over to the field tomorrow to give it a final mowing,” Dad continued. “Make it all look nice for your play.”

I ushered Blinky into the night, then Jack, who threw a final, regretful look at his brother. I put my hand upon the die-cast vehicles that covered his torso and pushed him down the steps. I took the doorknob and swung the door behind me, pausing for just a moment to watch my dad stare blankly at the dead TV. This could be the last time I saw him. I wanted him to turn around and tell me that he believed that I could do it.

“I’ll come back, Dad,” I said. “I’ll try. I’ll try really hard.”

“Yes, of course.” He did not look at me. “See you tomorrow night at the play. I know you’ll be fantastic.”

34.

It hurt to leave. But hurting was something every family that had lost a child knew about, and if the trollhunters had one job above all others, it was the ending of that hurt one way or the other before it became something that could never be salved.

That night Jack fulfilled a long-held fantasy: he drove. Ripping the keys from me and saying that he knew as much about driving as I did, he leapt into the driver’s seat while I loaded Blinky into the cargo area that usually held Dad’s mower. Once I was strapped into the passenger seat, Jack lurched the van forward, punching a nice, neat hole into the garage door.

“Mistake,” he said. “My mistake.”