The central image of the stone mural in the troll cave had been a reproduction of this very bridge, though the depiction hadn’t been able to replicate the real thing’s impregnable power. Each twisted tentacle and gnarled claw was so deeply etched that your eyes got lost inside the voids, and each one grasped toward the missing head stone. I could not forget the central character as depicted by the mural: a towering troll with six arms, one empty eye socket, and another of sparkling ruby.

Clouds interrupted the sun, throwing the atrium into unexpected gloom.

“My, my, my, yes,” tittered Lempke. “Scotland reborn. Looks so much more commanding bathed in gray, don’t you think, my juvenile jesters?”

A cry of pain slashed the silence. Lempke leaned toward the source of the sound with too much eagerness. A worker retracted his hand from where he had been feeling around inside one of the bridge’s clefts. I saw only a smear of blood before he shoved the injured hand beneath his opposite arm.

“It bit me!” he shrieked. “Damn thing bit me!”

Concerned others swarmed around the man to help. Lempke placed his rash-covered hands on his hips. Tub motioned his chin at our usual escape door, and we crept away from the scene. The stairwell was unguarded and we were thankful. But we didn’t move fast enough to escape Lempke’s final words.

“Stop your whining. It doesn’t hurt that bad. It’s an honor, in fact. Be proud.”

17.

By eleven o’clock that night the two of us were squeezed inside the cramped confines of my closet. Tub snored from behind a hockey mask, the hockey stick across his chest rising and falling with every lion purr. The previous hour had been spent griping—“My legs are asleep because you’re sitting on them,” “Can you remove your knee from my ear?” and so forth. Finally, though, Tub snoozed, the string of the archery bow digging a temporary scar into his cheek. Easy for him. He still didn’t believe a word of what I’d said. Me, I’d be up all night. I leaned back into a pile of clothes and distracted myself by thinking through our attempts at preparation.

The first thing we’d done after returning from the museum was give my room a thorough examination. For a guy who had a tough time putting on his own socks, Tub didn’t hesitate to get down on his stomach and squeeze beneath the bed, flashlight in hand. I stood as far away as I could, heart pounding.

Finally he pulled himself out. His frizzy hair was clotted with dust bunnies and his face was drawn and serious.

“There’s something terrible under there,” he whispered.

“Ha! Now do you believe me?”