Serge walked away and plopped down next to the church youth.

One of them raised a hand. “So what happened to the schism?”

“Paul prevailed and sent a bunch of junk mail to the Galatians.”

“Wow.”

Other side of the room: Coleman and a dozen helpers spread rolling papers across the coffee table. They picked apart buds from a half O-Z.

Coleman sprinkled liberally along Job 1.5s. “It’s called the Seventh Son of the Seventh Son.”

“Why’s that?”

He licked a gummed seal. “You smoke forty-nine joints, then tear open the roaches and use the contents to roll seven more joints. Then you smoke those and use the last seven roaches to twist up one kick-ass doobie with such concentrated resin it’ll blow your eyeballs out.”

“Wow.”

Someone tugged Serge’s sleeve on the other side of the room. “Are you okay?”

“I can’t believe he has a bigger congregation.”

Coleman: “… Works every time. We should try it tonight.”

“Sounds like an urban myth,” said one of the students. “Where’d you hear about it?”

“On a Keys radio station,” said Coleman. “I would have doubted, too. But you have to know the Keys-anything’s possible. Then me and my friends tried it ourselves and pay dirt!”

“How’d you do it?”

“Know how police stake out certain bars at closing time for DUIs?”

They nodded.

“Coleman,” Serge yelled from across the room, “that stupid story’s on the Internet.”

“If it wasn’t true before, it is now. Me and my friends did it, remember?”

“Sadly.”

“Never mind him.” Coleman turned back to his ring of acolytes. “My gang was tying one on at this funky Key West dive on Simonton. Almost closing time, and Johnny Law is parked across the street as usual. So my wingman, Bonzo, staggers into the parking lot, falling down, dropping his keys, getting up, tripping over the curb, crashing into garbage cans-while the rest of us leave the bar and drive away until the parking lot’s empty except for one last car.”

“Bonzo’s?”

“Correcto-mundo. And as soon as Bonzo starts the engine and moves an inch, blue lights everywhere. Cop gives him the Breathalyzer and he blows a zero. Then a field sobriety test. Walks a straight line, touches his nose, says the alphabet backward and forward.”

“Doesn’t make sense.”

“That’s what the cop thought. He says, ‘You were falling-down drunk a minute ago and now you’re sober as a judge. What’s going on?’”

“Bonzo says, ‘All my friends drove away without getting DUIs. Tonight I was the designated decoy.’”

INTERSTATE 95

A station wagon with New Hampshire plates blew through early-evening traffic.

Continuous snowbanks began showing small breaks until the breaks became larger than the frozen stretches. Another state line went under the headlights. Beers popped.

A crumpled speeding ticket hit the floor. “Let Virginia try to find me.”

The car stopped.

Slamming doors awoke Andy McKenna in the backseat. He looked around the nightscape. Cars pulling in, tractor-trailers idling, picnic tables, square building in the middle.

He yawned and rubbed his eyes. “Where are we?”

“Welcome center.”

“Florida?”

“North Carolina.”

Other student vehicles arrived. Vermont. Rhode Island. Football stickers. Greek letters.

The rest of the station wagon’s occupants returned from rest-rooms and vending machines. Doritos, coffee. They switched drivers and pulled back onto the highway. Radio low.

“… Good, good, good! Good vibrations!…”

The signs began. Every few minutes. SOUTH OF THE B ORDER, 112 M ILES… 105 M ILES… 98…

“Aren’t we going to find a motel?” asked Andy.

“Absolutely not,” said Joey.

“It’s spring break,” said Doogie.

“And?”

“You have to drive straight through all the way or it doesn’t count.”

SOUTH OF THE B ORDER, 53 M ILES… K EEP Y ELLING, K IDS. T HEY’LL S TOP.

“When do you think we’ll get there?”

“Three A.M., maybe four,” said Spooge, the just-relieved driver snuggling against a backseat door with a bunched-up beach towel.

Andy opened a borrowed phone. “I’m going to try my dad again.”

“You’ve called a dozen times now.”

“I’ll eventually catch him.” He dialed. Ring, ring… Andy noticed the numeric display. “Shoot, I must be tired. Accidentally dialed my own cell number.” Ring…

“Gimme that.” Spooge snatched the phone away.

“Agent Oswalt here…”

The phone folded shut.

“What’d you do that for?” asked Andy.

“We’re on spring break. Chill out.”

A thousand miles north, Agent Oswalt looked at the unfamiliar number of the disconnected call. He hit call.

“New rule,” said Spooge, reaching for a switch on the commandeered cell. “All phones off.”

Click.

South Carolina line.

SOUTH OF THE B ORDER, I M ILE.

Andy stared out the window at a giant, lighted sombrero marking the historic kitschy rest stop. “I got Mexican jumping beans there when I was a kid.”

“What did you say?”

“Just talking to myself.”

He lay back and closed his eyes. Snoring…

A wild cheer went up in the station wagon.

Andy shook his groggy head. “What is it?”

The driver pointed at a passing sign:

WELCOME TO F LORIDA.

“How long was I asleep?”

“Two states.” A traffic citation ripped in half. “I just need to stay out of Georgia for seven years.”

They still had a good ways down to the gulf coast. But finally, twenty-nine hours after leaving their New England tundra, the students arrived in the hot, sticky Panama City night.

“There’s our hotel.”

The pasty foursome stared up at a flickering neon sign of a smiling alligator standing on its hind legs. It was one of those older, animated jobs from the sixties. Every other second, the gator pumped its reptilian claws up and down like a go-go dancer.

The station wagon pulled into the parking lot. Students rolled baggage toward the office, past a newspaper box with a photo of Andy’s father on the front page.

Next to the box, two students in orange-and-blue T-shirts sat sullenly on the curb, chins in hands.

Andy stopped rolling luggage. “You guys okay?”

“We didn’t make reservations,” said Melvin Davenport.

“That’s crazy,” said Spooge. “The whole city’s sold out. You do realize you’re not going to find anything.”

Melvin gave Cody a look.

“I got an idea,” said Spooge. “It’s a budget motel, but it’s still beach priced.”

“We could use the extra scratch,“ said Doogie.”You guys have money?”

“And sleeping bags,” said Cody.

“But then we’re up to six,” said Andy. “It’s over the room limit.”

“That’s practically empty compared to our other trips,” said Doogie.

“Room limits are just suggestions,” said Spooge.

“I’ll go check in,” said Joey. “You two wait here so they don’t see you.”

The others walked the rest of the way across the lot and pushed open the lobby door of the Alligator Arms.

ALLIGATOR ARMS, ROOM 534

Loud knocking on the door.

Serge opened up. “Welcome to hell.”

Two women entered with duffel bag straps over shoulders. Country began coughing. “What’s all that smoke?”

City fanned the air in front of her face, staring at the dozen students toking up around Coleman. “Who are all these people?”

“Coleman likes to bring home strays.” Serge reached for Country’s bag. “Let me help you. Any trouble with the landlord?”

“Doesn’t know yet.”

“Smart thinking.” Serge threw the duffel in a corner. “Skipping out on rent always prevents those sentimental farewells.”