The next few minutes are a blur. People are yelling and clapping, Papa Pigorino grabs my hand and Egon Belt’s hand, and we both stand up. I just about lose it, but Egon Belt looks as if he’s eaten nothing more than a donut and a cup of coffee. He’s smiling and waving back at the crowd. Papa is yelling into his microphone. “Is a tie! Is a tie! We have-a two-a winners!”

He goes on, but I can’t hear what he’s saying — all I want is to get off that stage and lie down. After a few minutes that feel like hours, Papa runs out of things to say. I climb down off the podium, and HeyMan runs up to me and slaps me on the back. Seismic events occur within my digestive system. With a superhuman effort, I keep it together.

Vito is handing out free slices to the crowd. Just watching people shove pizza into their mouths is making my world spin. I stagger off toward Vaccie, toward that patch of shaded grass. HeyMan and Cyn, on either side of me, are both talking. HeyMan is telling me I’m awesome; Cyn is asking if I’m okay.

“I gotta lie down,” I mumble. I sink onto the grass and stretch out. Cyn and HeyMan look down at me worriedly. I feel the BLD trying to sort itself out inside me. A few seconds later, Hoover joins us.

“I don’t know how you do it, dude,” he says with regretful admiration.

“Me neither,” I say. I want to belch, but I think that might lead to other things.

“I thought that old dude had you smoked, but then he just stopped. You got lucky.”

Egon Belt. I roll onto my side and push myself up, trying to stand without compressing my belly. Hoover grabs my hand and helps me up.

“Anyways, congrats,” he says, then walks off.

HeyMan says, “Maybe you should, like, just not move for a while.”

“I gotta say thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” HeyMan says.

“I mean, to Egon Belt.” I look around, trying to spot Egon Belt’s John Deere cap. “Where’d he go?”

“I saw him go around back of Pigorino’s,” HeyMan says.

HeyMan and I find Egon Belt in the alley next to the restaurant sitting on an upended crate. He is sitting stiffly, leaning forward just a little, his big hands gripping his knees, his eyes fixed on something that isn’t there. His face is unnaturally pale.

“Maybe we shouldn’t bother him,” HeyMan whispers.

Egon Belt must’ve heard him, because his head jerks up a notch and his eyes fix upon us.

I say, “Mr. Belt?”

“Yep,” he says.

“Um . . . I just wanted to say thanks. You had me beat.”

“That’s okay,” he says, following up with a small belch. “The rules say you got to eat the whole slice — half slices don’t count. I couldn’t have finished that last one anyway.”

“Well, it was an honor to eat with you.”

“Honor?” he says. I can hardly hear him. He squeezes his eyes shut for a few seconds. He really doesn’t look good. His face is whiter than the inside of a hot-dog bun, and it’s covered with tiny beads of sweat.

“It’s no honor, son,” he says after a moment. “It’s gluttony and conceit.”

He makes a noise that might be an attempt to laugh, but what comes out is another belch.

“But —”

“But nothing. Now, go on. Leave me alone.” He swallows, looking paler than ever. The droplets of perspiration on his forehead are quivering, and I realize his whole body is shaking. “Go on. Get lost. Believe me, you don’t want nothing to do with this business. And you do not want to be here for what’s about to happen next.”

I get what he is saying and start to back away. I can sense the pressure building. His face seems to swell, and the whiteness of it gives way to red as the blood rushes from his stomach into his extremities. HeyMan can see it, too. We turn our backs and walk quickly away. I flat-out refuse to describe the sound we heard a moment later.

Back in front, most of the spectators have left. Vito is moving the traffic cones off the street. Cyn is waiting for us in Vaccie’s shadow.

“Did you find him?” she asks.

“Yeah,” HeyMan says. “He’s back there having a reverse-eating event.”

Cyn grimaces, then looks at me. “How about you?”

“I’m okay,” I say. “Things are settling down.”

“I think they’re still giving away pizza. You hungry?” She grins.

“Not so much.”

“I guess there’s a first time for everything.”

“I think I need to go home and chill for a bit.” I look back toward the alley. “I hope Egon’s okay. He didn’t look so good.”

Just then, Egon Belt comes striding out of the alley. He goes over to Papa, who is helping Vito take down the folding tables, and shakes his hand. He’s standing up straight, he’s smiling, his color is normal, and his beard is neatly combed. He looks nothing like a guy who’d been barfing his guts out five minutes ago.

“Back from the dead,” HeyMan says.

“Egon’s a real pro,” I say proudly.