Page 73 of One Adult, Please

"Focus," Joel says.

"I'm extremely focused."

Grant's dart finally does its job in the treatment room. The third wrong person behind the cot goes slack and drops out of sight. Joel shifts, grabs the cot frame, and shoves it fully across the doorway, trapping the remaining two inside.

"Now," he says.

Beck finishes the former Wondie Hat, then joins Grant at the cot. Joel keeps it braced while they handle the three trapped behind it, one at a time.

The room goes quiet except for all of us breathing too hard.

The mascot head lies upside down near the reception desk, sunglasses still smiling at the ceiling.

I point at it with the friendship paddle. "No one wears that."

"Wasn't going to," Beck says.

"You thought about it."

Grant lowers the sleepy stick. "That was... suboptimal."

"The sleepy stick has terrible customer service," I say.

"It bought time."

"It buffered during combat, Grant."

"Yes."

"I'm leaving a review."

Joel opens the supply closet with his key. His hand is steady. Mine is not.

Inside: boxes of bandages, bottles of antiseptic, rolls of medical tape, packets of over-the-counter medication, two emergency splint kits, a defibrillator with a green light still blinking, and a box of surgical gloves.

"Worth it?" Beck says.

"Worth it," I say. "But the band-aid house was rude."

We fill two tote bags with the portable supplies and leave the larger equipment locked inside the closet for retrieval with a maintenance cart. Joel marks it on the map.

Joel writes THE BAND-AID HOUSE on a piece of cardboard. Tapes it to the door.

After the west band-aid house, the rest of the big middle feels easier, not easy. Nothing is easy anymore. But easier. We clear two more restaurants. A café. A candy shop that I insist on entering personally because candy is a morale resource and the Glue manages morale and the Glue needs chocolate.

The candy shop has no wrong people. It does have Kevin.

Kevin sneaks inside as soon as we open the door. I don't know how. Nobody knows how. Kevin has transcended the basic laws of spatial reasoning to get inside a candy shop where he's eating a display of saltwater taffy directly off the shelf.

"Kevin."

Kevin chews. He looks at me with horizontal pupils that communicate a level of contempt I haven't experienced since my last performance review at the job I had before this life, the life where I worked in an office and had a desk and didn't carry a friendship paddle and hadn't been headbutted into a pond by a goat.

"Kevin, this is strategic candy. You're eating strategic candy."

Kevin pulls another piece of taffy off the shelf. Chews. The wrapper crinkles under his hoof. He's unmoved by my authority.

"Grant, your goat is in the candy shop."