NOW I’VE LOST both Joon and John Lockdown.
I have to get outside for fresh air.
I find a bench, sit, and wait for the buzzing in my ears to settle. I’ve sat on more benches in more public places lately than ever before in my life. My butt’s going to have permanent benchmarks on it, if this keeps up.
I don’t know how much time goes by with me in a daze like that. But eventually I’m interrupted by the sound of someone clearing their throat.
“Mind if I sit?”
A man’s shape is silhouetted against the bright sun.
A man in a silver-gray jumpsuit.
I gulp.
“Excuse me, but you’re the kid—you’re from Peavey. Your name is Stanley, right?” John Lockdown asks, bending over me slightly with a friendly smile. “You called out to me in there, didn’t you?”
Am I dreaming?
Am I breathing?
When he sits, his knees crack, and he grimaces. He takes off the mask, and that’s when I notice the familiar face. The gray hair.
“Wait—you’re Doc! The custodian! Right?”
He gives me a stiff smile.
“So what are you—so why are you—so you were the artist on the Sketchpad of Mystery?”
Doc nods his head and chuckles.
“Is that what you call it? Sketchpad of Mystery?” He snaps his fingers. “I like it. That’s catchy.” He sets a black art portfolio next to him on the bench. “That was me. And now, look at me! I’m John Lockdown in the flesh, yes indeed.” He points a finger at me: “Although I don’t have a portal at the back of my utility closet. Yet.”
I never noticed before—maybe because I never heard him talk before—but Doc has an Irish accent. I break into a huge grin. “I should have figured it might be you! Because of course you’d have the key to the offices.”
He winks. “I was cleaning one night when I saw the markers left out, and I was curious. I opened the sketchpad, and there on the first page, what do I see? The sketch of a boy trapped inside a burning dog crate. Screaming for help. Now, how could anyone let that go unanswered—a cry for help from a fellow illustrator?”
I feel my face go hot.
“Being a school custodian is my day job, Stanley. But I’m hoping someday to break into comics. Do illustration.”
“You’re great at it,” I say shyly. “Finding your drawings on the sketchpad every week? That’s basically been the only good part of middle school.”
“And finding your drawings back to me? Best part of the custodial job. Not counting the paycheck.”
“Come on. My drawings are basically stick figures.”
“But you have a knack for a story line. YOU created John Lockdown! You took those ridiculously scary safety drills and turned that around into something new, something positive. A force for good! A superhero!”
He fiddles with the edge of the blue cape, and looks a little embarrassed. “I hope you don’t mind that I decked myself out like him. It was just a gimmick, for a meeting.”
“Course I don’t mind!” I say. “It’s so cool to see John Lockdown in real life.”
And to know I’m not hallucinating.
And to hear someone else say that they think those safety drills are “ridiculously scary.”
John Lockdown—I mean Doc—sighs and stretches out his legs in their silver tights. “I was hoping to impress a publisher, to get inside a meeting and show my work. But it didn’t pan out.”
“That’s too bad.”
“Ah well. It’s a tough business.” He sighs again.
We sit there, on the bench, in silence for a moment—and then I happen to glance at my entry badge. Which has a sticker on it, reading Exclusive Lunch Panel with the Master.
I get an idea.