The music grows louder.

The lights get brighter.

I zigzag through the growing number of meandering tourists, some holding the familiar red-covered dictionaries in their hands. The band I have been hearing is playing on a stage to my left, and I make a beeline toward the crowd in front of it. A guy shouts, “Hey, watch it,” to my right. I turn and spot the female Marshal shoving her way through the dancing and singing rock band audience. And her eyes are set on me.

I wriggle my way through a group of women with their arms slung around each other. A bunch of them swear or yell at me as I search for somewhere, anywhere, to run. One of my bags slides down my shoulder. I reach for the strap to shrug it back up when something catches on the strap and pulls.

I stumble forward, hit the ground, and ignore the pain as panic screams inside me. I turn and scoot backward. Cymbals crash over and over again. The female Marshal smiles and strides closer.

“Are you okay?” A guy steps in between the Marshal and me. I watch her reach around her back as I scramble to my feet and run.

“Screw you!” the guy shouts as I duck and weave and dodge through the crowd until I am close to the front center of the stage with the female Marshal and her scary smile advancing. From the other far side of the stage I see the hooked-nosed Marshal take a step forward and nod. The female Marshal pauses. Both watch me, waiting—like lions hunting prey—ready to pounce when I make a move. There’s an entrance to the inside restaurants to my right. I just need to get there, and I might have a chance.

Lights pulse. A guitar solo wails. I look for Atlas or any of the other Stewards, but if they are on the pier, they aren’t here now. But thinking of Atlas gives me an idea.

I ease the backpack off my shoulder. My attention shifting between the man standing at the end of the stage and the woman bobbing back and forth with the crowd to keep me in her sights, I reach into my bag.

The drumbeat gets faster and louder. The guitar solo gains in frenzy. I pull the papers out and launch them into the air like Atlas did when we last faced Marshals. The pages fly up in the gusting breeze. The guitar wails on a high note, and the crowd cheers. The female Marshal is knocked to the side as people surge forward, grabbing at the fluttering papers, thinking it’s part of the act, and I bend low and bolt for the entrance.

The female Marshal is not far behind me as I leap over a “Wet Floor” sign, dodge a family eating ice cream, and race through the wide, tiled indoor concourse that smells of grilled meat and fudge. The Marshal is still right behind me. I reach back into my bag and throw more papers as I streak by a group of costumed people singing “Happy Birthday.” There are shouts of surprise, and I toss another handful of papers over my shoulder while dashing for the exit.