Nish was already screaming when he heard the roar.
He was screaming and crying, convinced he was going to smother in this airtight box, when, suddenly, there was a slight whining noise, then the sound of something catching, coughing, then an enormous roar.
Mr. Dillinger took the opportunity to race back to the dressing room. He had five minutes to check the room and around most of the rest of the lower arena for Nish.
Mr. Dillinger was getting worried. He was responsible for the kids off the ice. He prided himself on taking great care of the team, without being too protective. But right now he felt terrible. He had lost Nish.
He checked the Screech Owls’ dressing room, and the equipment rooms, and even the other dressing rooms. He checked the washrooms and corridors. He asked Secret Service guards at two rear doors and at the Zamboni main doors if they’d seen a chubby little kid in full hockey uniform, but no one had seen him.
That smell. What was that smell?
Nish knew it from somewhere. It was like … like … like rotten eggs! Yes, that was it. Rotten eggs.
Had he smelled it in science class? Fahd’s old egg salad sandwiches he kept forgetting in his locker?
He felt a motion. Whatever he was in seemed to jump and chug and roll. And then the roar again – a huge roar.
His nose filled once more with a fresh burst of the rottenegg smell.
But now he knew what it was.
Not rotten eggs, but propane fuel!
He felt his little prison cell moving now, smooth and fast. He heard all kinds of new sounds: valves turning, water running, something twisting, something grinding.
He felt something being sprayed onto him. Something cold, very cold.
Something like ground-up ice, or snow!
He knew now. He knew exactly where he was.
Inside the Zamboni!