ARRRGH!!! was even less artful. It snatched whatever scraps it could from the air and shoved them at its slobbering jaw. Not all of it hit the mark: pieces of white bread were adhered via peanut butter all across the troll’s fur. There was no doubt it was enjoying itself; with every mighty swallow, its horns gored enthusiastically at the cabinet and its gargantuan feet stamped the dropped bread and peanut butter into a brown paste.

Neither paid us any attention. They were focused on the task, blurting incomprehensible remarks around mouthfuls of mashed food.

Tub pushed his hockey stick into my hands and unslung his bow. His eyes were glazed but determined and I felt a surge of pride. Dad was in some kind of irretrievable slumber. This was up to the two of us and Tub knew it.

“I’ll take the smaller one,” he whispered.

“That’s your plan?” I hissed.

“What? The smaller one looks tricky.”

“Tricky? He’s almost blind!”

“Oh, yeah? Well, I bet he’s got perfect hearing.”

With trembling hands, he fit the arrow into the string and began to pull it back.

“Aim for the heart,” I urged.

At least five different spots on Blinky’s chest beat in spasmodic rhythm.

“Which one?” Tub demanded.

“Any of them!”

“Fine, fine!” Tub winced as he pulled the bowstring as far back as he could. The arrowhead dodged around like crazy—up, down, left, right. I took a step back, uninterested in falling victim to a spectacular misfire. Tub squinted and aimed. “You get ready to go apeshit on the furry one.”

I raised the puny baseball bat and insignificant hockey stick. They felt about as lethal as a couple of pretzel rods. The only optimistic thought I could conjure was that ARRRGH!!! filled the entire room. No matter where I struck, no matter how sorry the attack, it would be impossible to miss.

Tobias F. Dershowitz had spent his entire youth as the target of ridicule. The Trophy Cave was only the latest in a long series of treacherous locations, Steve Jorgensen-Warner only the most infamous of those who’d dedicated their lives to his debasement. But on that night, in that kitchen, against the most daunting of foes and armed with the flimsiest of weapons, Tub’s aim was true. The bowstring fired with a melodic bing and the arrow cut through the air, hard and fast, right at the center of the multi-tentacled monster. It was entirely possible that Tub might have felled the troll had not the man of metal leapt in from the living room and deflected the arrow with his leg of bicycle chains.

The microwave beeped, its nonexistent meal done cooking.

The metal man came for us.