“What are you doing?” asked Miguel.

“Shhhhh!” said Guillermo. “It’s ringing… Hello? Is Mr. Jones there?”

“Speaking.”

“Sam Jones?”

“No, you got the wrong Jones.”

“Are you sure?”

“Who are you?”

“Mr. Jones, this is room service. Someone at the pool just charged two hundred dollars of champagne on your account. As a courtesy to our guests, we always like to verify when it’s an amount that high.”

“I didn’t order any champagne! I’m not paying that!”

“You’re not Sam Jones?”

“No, Kyle. Listen, you have to-”

“Already taken care of, Mr. Jones. We’ll get hotel security right on it. Sorry for the inconvenience.” Guillermo hung up and dialed again, this time for the dorm they’d just left.

Raul looked confused. “I don’t understand-”

“Quiet!” Guillermo raised his deep voice an octave. “Hello? Is this Jason?… Jason Lavine?… This is Kyle Jones… I realize you don’t know me. I’m from Boston College-just hooked up with your friends at a rest stop… Guess they saw ‘Florida or Bust’ on our windows. Anyway, I was asked to give you a call. They’re switching hotels and wanted you to know in case you need to reach them. Something about feeding fish… Because we got a killer block of rooms super-cheap at a better place, but some of our guys dropped out, so your friends are taking up the slack… Holiday Isles in Panama City… Right, it’s in my name, Kyle Jones… Uh, sure, it’s going to be wicked excellent.” He hung up.

High beams sliced through the New Hampshire night. Two glowing dots appeared in the distance. Headlights hit a small deer on the center line. It darted into trees. The Lincoln approached a bridge over a tiny creek. Guillermo carefully applied brakes on the slick surface.

“What’s that business about switching hotels?” asked Pedro.

“Buying time with our government friends.” Guillermo opened his phone again.

Raul lowered his electric window on the passenger side and braced himself against the abrupt arctic blast.

“Madre?” said Guillermo. “Good news… No, we don’t have him. But our friends don’t either…”

The Lincoln stopped in the middle of the bridge.

“… Because I know exactly where he’s headed… Thank you, Madre…”

As previously instructed, Raul began collecting automatic weapons from the other occupants and flinging them over the side of the bridge.

“… On our way to the airport right now… Looks like we’re going to spring break…”

A Mac-10 sailed into the darkness.

“… No, they won’t get there before us. At least not at the correct hotel… Because I made a couple phone calls…” Guillermo turned toward an odd sound from Raul’s open window. “… I’ll let you know as soon as we get there. Good night, Madre.” He hung up. “Raul, did you check-”

“Check what?” The final gun was flung.

Crack.

Guillermo reached for the glove compartment. “Don’t tell me.”

Car doors opened. The gang shivered at the bridge’s railing. Guillermo swept a flashlight beam thirty feet down into the chasm below, where three Mac-10s sat motionless. The fourth slowly spun to a stop on the iced-over creek.

“Guillermo, how was I supposed to know?”

“Just get back in the car.”

PANAMA CITY BEACH

Four people stood on the side of the road waving signs for free pancakes. Three kids wore T-shirts with the Jesus fish. Serge flapped the fourth sign. They’d given him a shirt, too. He’d drawn feet on his fish with a Magic Marker but hadn’t changed the name inside to Darwin.

A line of sporty cars came to a standstill at a red light. People hung out windows, waving drinks. “Look at the loser freaks!”

“Hey, Jesus Crispies, eat me!”

The light turned green. The cars drove off.

Serge turned with raised eyebrows. “You get that a lot?”

“All the time.”

“What do you do about it?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“It’s okay. We turn the other cheek.”

“Good for you,” said Serge.

They resumed poster waving.

Another red light. More insults.

And so on.

An hour later, a student dangled out the passenger window of a Mustang, vigorously shaking a beer. “Yo, Christian faggots!” He popped the top, spraying them with suds. “Ooops… please forgive me!” The car filled with cackles.

Before the passenger knew what was going on, Serge had both hands through the open window, seizing hair. The youth’s face repeatedly smashed the dashboard in rhythm with Serge’s instructions: “Treat… others… as you… would have them… treat you!”

He released his grip, and the unconscious student flopped back in his seat, blood streaming down his frat shirt. The others in the Mustang normally would have jumped from the vehicle at the welcome opportunity to whup butt, but the intensity of Serge’s onslaught made them screech off instead.

Serge rejoined the stunned roadside gang. He pointed at the ground. “Dropped your posters.”

“But I thought you believed that turning the other cheek was a good thing?”

“My complete quote was, ‘Good for you.’ It’s just like the Bible: One must consider the overall context. Remember when Jesus went on that money-changers-in-the-temple lights-out cage match? I really like that part…”

Sudden yelling from behind: “Inside! Now!”

They’d never seen their pastor so angry. The foursome headed for the activities room.

“No!” The preacher pointed at Serge. “Not you!”

The remaining trio demurely ducked inside for an unprecedented tongue-lashing. “I couldn’t believe what I just witnessed in the street!”

A tentative hand went up.

“What is it?” snapped the pastor.

“But nobody’s ever defended us like that before.”

“Violence is wrong! It’s against everything we stand for!”

“You don’t know what it’s like out there. They say all this stuff.”

“Turn the other cheek!”

“What about money changers in the temple?”

“Did Serge tell you that?”

The boy lowered his head. “Maybe…”

The pastor took a deep breath. “From now on, you are to go nowhere near that man!”

“But…”

“But what?”

“We… kind of like him. And he knows the Bible inside out.”

“The devil can quote scripture with the best. He’s trying to make you nonbelievers.”

“Just the opposite. He said that unlike politicians and TV preachers, we’re magnificent ambassadors for our religion because our faith is so pure and beautiful, and we should never stop nurturing it.”

“I saw his T-shirt!” said the pastor. “He drew feet on the Jesus fish!”

“But he didn’t change the name to Darwin.”

“So?”

“That’s the magnetic appeal of his theology: He respects all religions, then mixes and matches for himself.”

“No!” yelled the pastor. “No mixing and matching!”

“Why not?”

“It’s against the rules.”

“But we already have. Even you.”

“What do you mean?”

“He said that if Jesus and the apostles didn’t mix and match, our own religion never would have gotten off the ground.”

The pastor turned purple. “I’ve heard more than enough! My decision is final! Stay away from him! Am I understood?”

INTERSTATE 95

A station wagon with a University of New Hampshire parking decal crossed the Virginia line.

Each new state called for another beer. It was the law.

The driver crumpled a State of Maryland speeding ticket and threw it on the floor.

“What are you doing?” asked Doogie.

“When am I ever coming back to Maryland?” said Spooge.

“On the return trip, hopefully.”

“So someone else will be behind the wheel.”

Their drive had been touch-and-go for a while. The increased snowfall back on campus was the leading edge of an approaching blizzard that would soon hammer most of the northern seaboard. Visibility had almost stopped them in southern Connecticut, but the New England quartet pressed on and outran the system’s front by Delaware.