Tonight Zig is playing jacks with thousands of twinkling stars across the heavens. I can even see the Milky Way, or at least the whitewash Zig uses to paint the night sky. I focus on the beauty above to distract myself from my ordeal.

I am tied with skipping ropes to an infirmary stretcher, which the do-gooders are now dragging across a grassy field in the manner of a sled. Before I was tied down, I was wrapped in a blanket, and so I feel like an American Indian baby bound in a papoose, except a baby would not have its hands cuffed and its mouth taped shut no matter how strict its parents might be. If my mouth were not taped, I would call out to the second stretcher being hauled across the field. I would tell Johnny not to panic. The do-gooders are kind and charitable, after all, so other than a little rope burn, we should come to no harm.

Two do-gooders are pulling a rope that is attached to my stretcher as a leash. They have flashlights to lead the way. A third do-gooder follows behind to ensure that I do not fall off. Again, if my mouth were not taped, I would tell these boys that this dramatic capture is pointless because Johnny and I planned to turn ourselves in at the crack of dawn.

Every previous night in the janitor’s office, Johnny and I had placed desks in front of the door because there was no lock to keep intruders out. Tonight, however, we had not bothered. I imagine Johnny is cursing himself for that. I turn my head to catch sight of my roommate’s stretcher and his own trio of escorts.

I see the other group’s flashlights glimmering at the opposite end of the field. They seem to be going in a different direction. Zig almighty, the do-gooders are splitting Johnny and me up!

Where are they taking him? Maybe Czar has woken, and they will take Johnny to the infirmary so his victim can pick him out in a kind of police lineup. Or perhaps he is going straight to jail (Do not pass Go). But why would I not go with him? I am guilty too. I played a key role in this fiasco.

After my group leaves the field, my escorts drag my stretcher down an empty street. The night is silent except for the scraping sound of board against pavement, which reminds me of snowplows in Hoffman Estates. Since I am at curb level, the dark buildings we pass seem larger and more foreboding than usual. They loom over me as though passing judgment. If they had heads, they would shake them; if they had fingers, they would wag them.

My three escorts have not uttered a word yet, so I am surprised when one says, “Oh, bugger, we took a wrong turn. We should be on Phoebe Caulfield Road.” They turn my sled around, and we head back and then up a different street.

I am thankful it is nighttime. If it were daytime and passersby were eyeing me, I would feel ashamed. So thank you, do-gooders, for your forethought.

We stop in front of what looks like a dorm. Two of the boys lift the stretcher to waist level and carry me down a cobblestone pathway past a hedge made up of skyrocket spruce. RHODA PENMARK DORMITORY is written on the sign above the front door. The dorm’s doorgirl meets our group out front. She takes one look at me, the giant papoose, and says, “This ain’t right.”

A do-gooder says, “Just hold the door, Inez.”

Inez holds the door as the do-gooders and I pass through. I am carried across the empty lobby and down the hall to a door marked 106, like my old locker at Helen Keller. Inez fiddles with a set of keys and finally inserts the right one and turns the lock. “You had to gag him?” she says as she steps into the room and flicks on the light. “He’s a newbie. You could’ve taken pity.”

“Shut up, Inez, or we’ll gag you.”

Dear Inez huffs and leaves the room.

The do-gooders set the stretcher on the bed. I look up at the twirling ceiling fan. For some reason, I think of Czar hypnotizing the haunters. I picture him twirling a pinwheel in front of their faces and saying, “You’re feeling sleeeeeepy. Real sleeeeeepy.” I am not sleepy, however. I am wide-awake even though it must be four in the morning.

The do-gooders untie the ropes. They roll me on my side and unlock the handcuffs. My wrists are scrawny, so they do not hurt from the cuffs, which I notice are plastic. Toy handcuffs! Johnny will be mortified.

I sit up, and one of the do-gooders, a boy with a big nose, says he will remove the duct tape. He has a bit of a British accent. He tugs on the corner of the tape over my mouth. “This might hurt a bit,” he says. “I’ll go slow.”

He peels the tape, uprooting the tiny blond hairs growing above my lip. I wince and say, “Where’s Johnny Henzel?”

“We aren’t permitted to say,” the British boy replies.

“It was an unfortunate accident,” I tell him. “We mistook Charles Lindblom for somebody else—for our murderer, in fact.”

The two do-gooders exchange glances.

I try to play on their sympathy: “We are gommers, but we haven’t gotten over our murders yet.”

My second captor, who has an American accent, says, “I need to get the stretcher back.” So I stand up, dressed only in my boxer shorts, the blanket over my shoulders, and let the boy drag the stretcher off the bed. He carries it from the room without a word.

“You’ll sleep here tonight,” the Brit says. “In the morning, the do-good president from your zone will come talk to you.”

Reginald Washington is coming to save me.

“I’ll be sitting outside your door, mate, in case you need anything. My name’s Ringo.”

“As in the Beatles.”

“It’s not my real name,” the big-nosed boy says. “It’s just what people call me. I’m from England, you see, but my family moved to Detroit a year before I passed.”

“Are you my jailer, Ringo?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. I work at the Gene Forrester in Nine.”

“Is that where Johnny is?”

“I am not at liberty to say.”

“Look, you have to take me to Johnny Henzel right now. He is a very sensitive soul.”

Ringo shakes his head.

“He is a little unstable,” I say.

Ringo gives me a deadpan look. “Yes, so I heard.” Then he leaves the room, shutting the door behind him.

I go to the window and draw back the dusty curtains. I try pushing up the sash, but it will not budge. In any case, even if I escaped from this room, where would I go? I cannot trot around in my underwear in search of Johnny in the dark.

Beside the window is a desk. I sit. I cannot sleep now. I will just wait for the sky to lighten and for Reginald to come. I try studying the stars in the sky, but my concentration is poor. I feel unstable myself. Zig in heaven, if I had a carving knife, I might amputate a baby toe.