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He tossed it toward the barrier.
It bounced back.
He caught the ball on the bounce and looked at it. No marks. No sign it had done anything but bounce.
He took the last three steps and, this time, without hesitating, pressed his fingertips against the barrier.
“Aaah.” He yanked his hand away and looked at it.
“What?” Quinn yelled.
“It burned. Oh, man. That hurt.” Sam shook his hand to throw off the pain.
“Let me look at it,” Astrid said.
Sam extended his hand. “It feels okay now.”
“I don’t see any burn mark,” Astrid said, turning his hand with hers.
“No,” Sam agreed. “But, trust me, you don’t want to touch that thing.”
Even now, even with all that was happening, he registered her touch like a very different sort of electric shock. Her hand was cold. He liked that.
Quinn picked up a chair that sat on one of the sidelines. It was a substantial wrought-iron chair. Quinn lifted it high, held it in front of him, and slammed the legs into the barrier.
The barrier did not yield.
Quinn hit it again, even harder, hard enough that the recoil spun him back.
The barrier did not yield.
Suddenly Quinn was screaming, cursing, slamming the chair wildly again and again against the barrier.
Sam couldn’t step close enough to stop him without getting hit. He placed a restraining hand on Astrid’s arm. “Let him get it out.”
Again and again Quinn hurled the chair against the barrier. It left no mark.
Finally Quinn dropped the chair, sat down on the tarmac, put his head in his hands, and howled.
The lights were burning bright inside the McDonald’s when Albert Hillsborough walked in. A smoke alarm was blaring. A separate beep, beep, beep called urgently for attention between the louder, angrier bleats of the alarm.
Kids had gone behind the counter and taken the cookies and Danish pastries from the display case. A box of Happy Meal toys, tie-ins to a movie Albert hadn’t seen yet, was open, the toys scattered. There were no fries in the bin but plenty were on the floor.
Feeling self-conscious, Albert walked around to the kitchen door and tried to open it. It was locked. He went back and hopped the counter.
It felt illegal somehow, being on the far side of the counter.
A basket of burned, black fries sat resting in the hot oil. Albert found a towel, grabbed the basket handle, and lifted it out of the oil. He hooked it in place so that the oil drained properly. The fries had been cooking since that morning.
“I guess those are about done,” Albert said to himself.
The fry timer continued to beep. It took him a second, but he found the right button and pushed it. That killed one noise.
Three tiny, black cookies were on the grill. Hamburgers that, like the fries, were about ten hours past done.
Albert found a spatula, scooped up the burgers, and tossed them into the trash. The burgers had long since stopped smoking, but no one had been around to reset the smoke alarm. It took Albert a few minutes to figure out how to climb up without landing on the searing hot grill so he could push the reset.
The silence was a physical relief.
