“And I’m supposed to like this plan?”

Spencer’s thoughts turned to his terrible predicament, duct taped to the Broomstaff. Once the Pan was in place, he would be forever cursed to wander the landfill, friendless and alone.

“Spencer!”

His heart pounded. Had someone just called his name?

“Spencer!” He recognized that voice. And through the angled rain, he saw a figure climbing out of a boat onto his small island.

It was Rho!

“I wasn’t completely honest with you yesterday,” she said. Why had she come back to the island?

“Yesterday, I told you that everything I did at New Forest Academy was just pretend,” Rho continued. “But I wasn’t pretending when I said that you’re different than other boys. Good different. I’ve met a lot of people in the last three hundred years, and I think you’re the bravest, most honest boy I’ve ever known.”

Spencer opened his mouth to say something, but rainwater filled it.

“And I’m not going to let you get Panned.” Rho’s hands tore at the strips of duct tape as she began to rip it away.

Suddenly, the Glop in the lagoon began to roil and froth more violently than before. It swirled around the small Broomstaff island, ripples and waves that sloshed against the shore.

Spencer glanced toward the pump house. He couldn’t see it through the rain, but he knew that the pump had been activated. The Glop was draining downward, returning to its unknown source. Returning to create more Toxites in this never-ending chain.

Lightning crackled overhead, brewing ever closer to strike the giant Broomstaff.

“Hurry!” Spencer couldn’t help but say it. Rho tore away the final strip of tape just as a jagged bolt of lightning blasted into the top of the Broomstaff.

Electricity shot down the gnarled trunk, infusing heat and power into the bronze dustpan. Rho pulled Spencer away just as the Pan curled, welding itself around the space where Spencer’s neck had been only seconds ago. Then it fell to the mud with a clunk.

Rho pushed her wet hair back as the storm seemed to suddenly fizzle out. She bent down and picked up the Pan. Without hesitation, she hurled it into the churning Glop lagoon.

Spencer stared at Rho in grateful disbelief. “Thanks.”

“You have to get going,” Rho said. “Your friends are trapped in that soda can. Mud caved in around them, but they’re digging themselves out.”

“That’s good, right?” Why did she look upset?

Rho shook her head. “Leslie Sharmelle is waiting for your dad. She’s set a trap, and I’m afraid she’s going to get him this time.”

Spencer started toward the edge of the island, where he presumed Rho’s blue recycle boat was tethered. Rho grabbed his arm, her head shaking.

“We can’t take the boat back,” she said. “Too dangerous while the pump is turned on.”

“Then how do we get across?” he asked, desperate to save his dad. “Brooms?”

“The broom won’t carry you far enough.” She paused. “Unless . . .” Rho pulled a pushbroom from her janitorial belt. “I’m going to hit you as hard as I can.”

“And I’m supposed to like this plan?”

“The pushbroom should launch you about halfway across the lagoon,” Rho said. “You can use your regular broom to take the rest of the way.” She unclipped the janitorial belt she was wearing and handed it to him.

“I’ll be in midair,” Spencer said. “What do I tap the broom against?”

“Your foot, your knee,” said Rho. “Anything to activate the magic.” She leveled the pushbroom toward Spencer. “Ready?”

He had barely finished cinching the janitorial belt around his waist when Rho slammed her pushbroom into his back as hard as she could. It knocked the wind out of him, and Spencer found himself gasping for breath as he soared out over the Glop lagoon. Just as Rho had predicted, he was about halfway across when his flight began to descend.

His fingers clutched at a broom handle and he pulled it from his janitorial belt. Angling the bristles, he tapped it against his foot. The magic activated and pulled him back upward, arching quickly toward the shore.

He sailed over the white heads of the Aurans, who waited at the edge of the lagoon in somber formation. Spencer couldn’t tell if they’d spotted him in flight, and he didn’t care to wait and find out.

Spencer touched down running, his shoes sloshing through the thick mud. With only a mist in the air, Spencer could see much better than before. Straight ahead was a mound of mud, the corner of the oversized soda can jutting out.

There was a flicker of lightning, an afterthought for the breaking storm. But in the flash, Spencer saw a glint of metal. It was the armored Filth, Leslie Sharmelle astride its prickly back. Rho was right about the trap. The creature was already in position to kill Alan Zumbro, crouched above the soda can’s opening like a cat waiting to pounce on an unsuspecting mouse.

Spencer was sprinting, his breath coming in desperate gasps. He knew he was probably too far away, but he refused to give up. In his anxiety, Spencer tripped and went down, sliding painfully in the mud. His broom tapped the ground and shot off in the wrong direction.

Spencer pushed himself up. A dark opening formed in the mud, and Alan was the first to slide out of the giant 7-Up can. Spencer’s dad stood up, scanning the dark landscape.

Spencer had just opened his mouth to shout when the Extension Filth pounced, Leslie Sharmelle twisting in the saddle to hurl a Palm Blast of vacuum dust at Alan. Spencer’s dad went down, helplessly pinned by the suction.

Leslie reached down and turned the dial on her battery pack, letting the angry Filth feed its hunger at last. Slavering jaws stretched wide as the Filth’s spiky tail whipped around, as fast as a striking snake.

But then, out of the darkness, a lone figure appeared. There was a glint of metal and a resounding clang, knocking the Filth’s bludgeoning tail away from Alan. The beast toppled, pulling Leslie under its bulk and pinning her with a grunt.

The Extension Filth snarled and righted itself. Leslie’s orange prison jumpsuit was caked in dark mud, her hair disheveled and as wild as the look in her eye. A razorblade flashed in her hand, and she urged the hungry Filth after Alan.

The mysterious figure acted fast. Mop strings whipped out from his hand, entangling the Filth’s armored legs. For the second time, the creature went down. This time Leslie was thrown from the saddle, still linked to her beast by the extension cord at her waist.

The stranger leapt forward, a razorblade gleaming in the damp night, and sliced through Leslie Sharmelle’s extension cord. There was a shower of sparks, and then the beast was free.

The Filth’s giant head perked up, nostrils flaring. Leslie was no longer in charge, no longer restraining its desire to feed on Alan Zumbro. The beast roared like a bear. It ducked into a quivering hunch and then released a shower of quills, blocking the Rebels from exiting the soda can.

Alan and the stranger threw themselves down as the sharp projectiles sank deep into the mud around them. Then the Filth charged, its body looking strange and frightening with the absence of its quills. Already, new spikes were rising through its mottled fur, pressing through the flesh and glinting sharply in the moonlight.

“Here!” the stranger cried as the beast came for Alan. The figure closed the razorblade and hurled the handle at Spencer’s dad. Alan dove for it just as the monster pounced, tackling him into the mud.

There was a sound of ringing metal as Alan’s thumb slid along the handle of the razorblade. The sword extended, deadly blade piercing through the Filth’s flesh and fur. The Filth grunted and rolled aside, its soft underbelly beginning to disintegrate.

Alan rose to his feet, jerking the blade out of the creature’s gut. With its remaining strength, the Filth snapped at him, buckteeth closing just short of Alan’s legs. Then the razorblade came down once more, severing head from body. Instantly, the Filth was gone, turned to dust and caught up on the wind.

Spencer pushed himself up from the mud, barely believing that his dad had just defeated the Filth that had tried so many times to eat him. In the still of the moment, Spencer had all but forgotten about Leslie Sharmelle.

Then he saw her, climbing atop the soda can to the place where she had first lain in wait to spring on Alan. This time she had no Toxite, but with her razorblade drawn, she was every bit as much of a threat.

Before Spencer could shout another warning, Leslie Sharmelle leapt from the top of the can, razorblade clutched in both hands above her head, ready to bring it down on her victim.

It was the stranger who reacted, swift and accurate. A blue spray bottle of Windex streamed from his hand, catching Leslie midflight in a cloud of mist.

The woman shimmered with an azure glow, a final scream escaping her lips. In less than a second, Leslie Sharmelle had turned to glass. Then, with a terrible sound, she hit the ground, shattering into countless pieces.

It was utterly silent. Only the drip-drip of the rainstorm dared make a sound. Then Bernard and Daisy stepped out of the can.

“What happened?” Bernard said. “Did we miss the fun?”

Daisy bent down and picked up a shard of glass that looked strangely like a finger. “Looks like something broke.”