I blinked my heavy eyes at the crowd of people. They were quiet aside from the sounds of seventeen tearful reunions. There were no pictures being taken: as I’d learn later, all of the electronics in a three-block radius were fried the instant Gunmar went down. Most of the faces I didn’t know, but all of them seemed certain of one thing: this monster that had taken their children must be destroyed. The task felt beyond my capabilities and I looked elsewhere for help. I found Ms. Pinkton, who was shaking her head as if apologizing for even considering giving me less than 88 percent. I found Sergeant Gulager, too, his rumpled hairpiece and thick mustache splattered with softie effluvium. He gave me the smallest of nods.

Jack and Claire leaned on their swords and waited. I spotted Tub, returning to the sidelines with his arm around his grandma’s shoulders, and the look he gave me was absent of judgment: this was the burden of being asked to lead. Only Blinky paid my decision no mind. He sat with his tentacles wrapped around ARRRGH!!!, whispering into the fur the kind of complicated, arcane ceremonial recitations known only to brilliant scholars sending off great warriors into the next realm of unknowable adventure.

I remembered what Jack had asked me once.

It’s a terrible thing, isn’t it? To be dragged under?

It took only a few slices to carve out Gunmar’s heart; the leathery, tubed organ skipped around in an attempt to dodge my blade. After that was done, I broke through the crustaceous skin of the softies and turned them to gelatin. Then I ducked into the stomach cavity and removed the gallbladder, tossing it to the turf for later burning.

Surviving Gumm-Gumms watched from the bleachers, their spell of slavery broken, watching their once-master’s vivisection as if uncertain about how they’d arrived in this peculiar place overrun with humans. They rolled horned heads and fluttered bony wings, decidedly uncomfortable as they looked around for the nearest bridge.

I slid off Gunmar’s hip and was caught by Claire and Jack. Dad was there, too, and brought me in to his chest. His shirt smelled like grass, like home, and when I smiled I felt the stiff edges of that stupid old calculator pocket. No, not stupid. Brilliant. He’d worn that thing for thirty years and it had yet to show a single indication of wear or tear. That pocket was a work of genius.