Chapter 9: The Stopwatch

On Thursday I went back to the Strike Zone and told myself it was for the fries.

Dot was waiting at the end of lane twelve with the stopwatch on its lanyard and my sunglasses in her shirt pocket.

"You came," she said.

"I came for the fries."

"Fries are on lane three. Sign the sheet."

This time I read the sheet before I signed it.

The man from lane nine was back, in the same shirt, holding his ball.

He lifted his scorecard at me and nodded.

Last week's seven people had become ten, and somebody had clearly told somebody.

I climbed onto the platform.

The stool was waiting in its yellow light, and I sat on it.

"Two minutes," Dot said. "One true thing. Go."

The stopwatch clicked.

I took a breath, and I said, "My dad has a diabetes monitor on his arm."

Nobody moved.

"It sends an alert to three phones when his sugar drops. My mom muted hers. My brother set his to silent."

I stopped.

My hands wanted a prop so badly that my fingers curled.

"Mine's on loud," I said.

The room did not laugh, and my mouth got dry.

I felt my nerve going.

So I reached up and made a pair of sunglasses out of my thumbs and forefingers and held them in front of my eyes.

"And that's why they call me Mr. Halvorson's Secret Agent."

A few polite chuckles.

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