IN ORDER TO get the bus driver to let me off, I have to lie. I have to tell her my mom’s waiting for me in her car in the airport cell phone lot, which is the first turn-off I happen to see. “Really, I’m fine!” I keep yelling. Finally she pulls over and opens the doors. I jump out and hit the ground running, back along the highway toward the convention center. It’s probably about a mile or two south of where I am right now.
It’s impossible.
Still, I run. It’s the only thing I can do. I run until the stitch in my side turns into a needle, and then a sharp dagger. (What is wrong with the people who go out for track? This is serious pain!)
As I run, I start waving madly for a cab—there’s got to be cabs, right? We’re near the airport! But no one is stopping.
I know it for sure now. I’m going to miss the cutoff time.
My feet are killing me. My throat is so parched I can’t swallow. I’m sweating and miserable and it stinks like traffic and I’m jumping at every car horn and John Lockdown would say “be strong!” and Liberty would say “relax!”—but they’re both full of it. I can’t.
It’s over.
I stop on the sidewalk, panting, hands on knees.
Suddenly, a car honks. I jump two feet in the air, then turn quickly to see a black convertible, swerving with a screech to the curb. A woman’s arm waves wildly. “Hey! What are you doing lollygagging out here on the highway, keed? It’s dangerous!”
It’s Olga, my bus driver, back in her usual trucker cap and shades. “Trivia Quest’s almost over, keed,” she shouts. “Where you running? Convention Center? You need a ride?”
I practically fall into her car. “How can I thank you?” I say, gasping. “You are the best!”
She laughs, and peels out with a jolt. And just like that, zero to sixty, I’m racing toward the finish—in Black Widow’s convertible, with the wind in my hair. Laughing.
She drops me right in front of the plaza with minutes to spare. I race to the big gold Trivia Quest platform. There’s a much smaller crowd than this morning.
A Quest official taps his microphone. “Last call!” His voice reverberates across the plaza. “Last call to redeem your tokens!”
Six small booths, for the winners of one through six tokens, are closing up shop, or just handing out the last of their consolation prizes. Folks are walking away with bobblehead dolls, key chains, posters, that kind of stuff. Meanwhile, there’s a big banner in front of me with the words ALL 7 TOKENS = VIP PASSES! written in shining golden letters. I make a mad dash while pulling my coins from of my pack.
What happens next feels like slow motion. Someone comes flying at me from out of left field. Before I can react, I’m hip-checked, hard, on my side.
I go flying.
My seven golden coins go flying, too.
They sparkle in the air in the late-afternoon sun.
And behind the airborne, glittering coins, I see the horrified face of Dylan Bustamante, his jaw dropping open as he realizes what he has done.
The coins fall to the ground. They hit the concrete floor of the plaza, spinning and rolling in every direction.
“Dang! Sorry!” says Bustamante.
I’m already on my hands and knees, scrambling to retrieve the coins, dodging under people’s feet, this way and that. I grab at a man who’s about to pocket one. “Hey, mister, that’s mine!” I yell, tugging on his arm. He shrugs and hands it over.
“I found four!” Dylan comes looming toward me out of the sea of people, handing over some tokens. “How many do you have? Do you have them all back?”
One, two, three, four, five, six . . .
One, two, three, four, five, six . . .