“Something’s happened,” Tabaqui whispers. “We need to investigate. What did you think you were doing? Have you lost your mind?” He pinches Tubby and turns to Smoker. “Listen. We’re going to put him on top of you and you’re going to drive ahead with him. But you’ll have to hold him tight, or he’ll fall.”
“What about you? I don’t want to hold him.”
“I can’t. I’m too fragile.”
They struggle to pull Tubby up to sit on Smoker’s knees, and then Tabaqui quickly splits. Smoker attempts to wheel after him, but finds it impossible with Tubby in the way. He’s so uncomfortable that when Tubby again begins to wiggle, Smoker pushes him off, turns on the flashlight, and observes him speedily crawling away into the darkness.
There’s already a sizable throng by the doors to the teachers’ bathroom. Everyone shines their flashlights away from their faces, so it’s hard to tell who’s here. They all mostly illuminate the doorframe. Finally R One appears. He’s hauling someone who can’t walk by himself, and that someone is dripping. A sickening sound.
“Someone with a light, to the hospital wing!” Ralph shouts, adjusting his burden.
One of the spectators steps forward, casting a hook-nosed shadow on the wall. Vulture leaves, lighting Ralph’s way.
“Well, I’ll be! That was Red,” Tabaqui hisses, fiddling with Smoker’s shirt. “Where’s Tubby? Where did you drop him?”
Butterfly crawls out, shielding his eyes.
“Get your shiners away!” he says testily.
The beams point to the floor.
“My wheelchair was supposed to be here somewhere. Where is it?”
Butterfly scuttles in a circle, like a singed moth. Tabaqui bumps him with his backpack.
“Hey! What just happened?”
Butterfly mumbles something indistinctly. Tabaqui bumps harder. Butterfly hisses and tries to swat away the backpack.
“How would I know? I was taking a dump! I’ve got diarrhea! I haven’t seen anything. I was sitting on the can the whole time. Could be that Red got cut. Or maybe it wasn’t Red. I don’t know nothing. Get me my wheelchair!”
Tabaqui leaves him to his troubles.
“Useless,” he complains to Smoker. “He’s playing dumb.”
“Let’s go,” Smoker pleads. “I’ve had enough excitement for one night. Honest. I’m done.”
Tabaqui looks around, aiding himself with the flashlight.
“Still, where’s Tubby? I thought I told you to keep an eye on him!”
“I don’t know. He crawled off somewhere. Let’s go.”
Tabaqui shines the light in Smoker’s eyes accusingly.
“We were supposed to take care of him. And you failed. We have to find him.”
“All right. Let’s go find him.”
Tabaqui is in no hurry. He directs the beam at the departing stragglers.
“Wait a minute,” he mutters. “Now this is interesting. Look . . .”
Something heavy flies at them out of a dark corner. Tabaqui takes a hint and reluctantly switches off the flashlight.
“Have you seen that?”
“Tabaqui, what are you doing here?” says a familiar voice. “And why did you have to bring this . . .”
Tabaqui fidgets guiltily.
“Smoker and I just went out for a stroll. Couldn’t sleep, for some reason. And then—shouting, Ralph, commotion. So we came to look. Who wouldn’t?”
“All right, we’ll talk later. Take him back to the dorm.”
“We need to find Tubby first! Ralph told us. Tubby ran away. No wheelchair, no nothing. I mean, no anything.”
“Go back. I’ll look for him myself.”
“All right. As you wish, Blind,” Tabaqui says, turning around his wheelchair. “We’re going.”
They are not the only ones. Tires squeak somewhere in front of them. Those in front pick up speed from time to time, apparently confident that they are driving down the middle, and immediately crash into the wall. The noise they are making allows Tabaqui to correct his trajectory. Smoker, heartened by Blind’s order, dutifully struggles to reach the dorm as quickly as possible. If Tabaqui could have his way he’d linger gladly, but he’s not sure that Blind isn’t following them. So he’s in a hurry too. Butterfly, some distance ahead, wheezily brags that his diarrhea has just saved someone’s life.
Ralph walks out of the hospital wing and sees Vulture waiting for him on the landing. He is amusing himself with painting zigzags on the ceiling with the flashlight.
“You didn’t have to wait,” Ralph says.
“I figured you wouldn’t want to go back in the dark. I’ll walk you over.”
“Thanks.”
Ralph heads for his office. Vulture limps by his side, shining light on the floorboards underfoot. They stop at the door. Vulture directs the beam at the keyhole.
“You may go,” Ralph says, unlocking the door. “Thanks for your help.”
“Take this, R One,” Vulture says. He rummages in his pocket and hands Ralph something. “You’re going to need it.”
It’s a joint. Ralph takes it without a word.
“Good night,” Vulture says.
Ralph slams the door behind him and turns on the light. He studies his face in the wardrobe mirror. It features a strip of surgical tape, all the way down his cheek. The cut is superficial, but Ralph can’t stop thinking that he’s gotten away with something. Half an inch to the left and it would have been good-bye, eye.
