“May we come in?”

The student answered by walking backward.

Four men entered. The door closed behind them.

The student bumped into the TV. “Who are you?”

“My friends call me Guillermo. You can, too.”

“What do you want?”

“For your pal over there to put the phone down.”

A receiver bounced on the floor. Hearts thumped. Students became statues. Guillermo’s associates searched the one-bedroom suite and checked the balcony. “All clear.”

“W-w-what’s going on?”

“You need to relax more,” said Guillermo. “You’re on vacation.”

“I’m really sorry about the ‘Grandad.’”

“Already forgotten about it. Now just stay right where you are, and we’ll be leaving soon.”

“I swear there’s no Andy here-”

“Shhhhh.” Guillermo circled the room to his left, so a wall was behind the students instead of the balcony. He counted five. “Is this everyone staying in the room?”

“Yeah.”

“Raul, turn up the stereo.”

“… Got myself a beer!…”

Guillermo snapped his fingers in rhythm. “Good beat. You like this song?”

“I… guess so. But what’s-”

A silencer-equipped pistol flew out from Guillermo’s jacket with such facility that the first student didn’t have time to be surprised.

Pfft-pfft-pfft. Tight forehead pattern. The shooting arm swung without intermission. Pfft-pfft. Pfft-pfft…

A freshman dropped where he stood. Targets moving now, Guillermo in a calm pirouette. Pfft, pfft, pfft. Pfft-pfft…

A crash through the coffee table.

Pfft-pfft-pfft…

Backward over a couch.

The last student reached the door and grabbed the handle. Pfft-pfft-pfft. He slithered down the blood-streaked wood with a rising number of exploding back wounds as Guillermo made certain.

Pfft, pfft, pfft, pfft, click, click, click.

Empty.

Guillermo high-stepped over bodies, ejecting an ammo clip and turning off the stereo.

Quiet. Just a light haze with that burnt gunpowder smell.

A toilet flushed.

Guillermo’s head snapped toward the sound. “Who didn’t check the bathroom?”

Three linen jackets shrugged.

The door opened. “What the hell was all that noise?” An unusually short person came out wearing a motorcycle helmet. He saw the room and froze-“Holy shit!”-backing up, slowly at first, before turning in full sprint toward the balcony. He reached the railing and looked down at the distant patio. Cornered.

Four men arrived at a casual pace. Each grabbed a diminutive limb.

“Please! No!”

They began swinging the tiny captive back and forth to build momentum.

“On three,” said Guillermo.

“One.”

“I’m begging you!”

“Two.”

“But I’m just the midget!”

“Three…”

FIFTEEN YEARS AGO

Small children shrieked and chased one another around a swing set. One with an autograph-covered plaster cast on his left arm hung upside down from the monkey bars as he had been told so many times not to.

Boynton Beach, closer to West Palm than Miami.

A cork ball rattled inside a referee’s whistle. An adult waved.

Children hopped off playground equipment and, after a period of mild disorganization, formed a single line behind the jungle gym. They followed their teacher back inside a cheerful classroom at Kinder Kollege.

Nap time.

Foam mats unrolled beneath walls of finger paintings with gold and silver stars.

Tires squealed. The teacher went to the window.

Five sedans and a windowless van skidded to the curb outside the chain-link fence. No fewer than twenty people jumped out, dressed in black and white. Dark sunglasses. Running.

As the team raced for the school’s entrance, it shed members at intervals, creating a grid of sentries across the lawn. The teacher was straining for a sideways view from the window when the classroom’s door flew open. Five strangers moved quickly. The teacher moved just as fast, blocking their path. They met in front of the alphabet.

“You can’t come in here!”

The first agent flashed a badge with his right hand and looked at a photograph in his other. “Which one’s Billy Sheets?”

A tiny boy sat up in the back of the room. The agent checked his hand again. He hopped over tot-filled mats and seized the boy under the arms.

The teacher ran after him. “I demand to know what’s going on!” From behind: “It’s okay, Jennifer.”

She turned to see the principal in the doorway with a look of grave concern, but also a nod to let the visitors proceed.

Moments later, the teacher, principal and all the children were at the windows. Car doors slammed shut in a drum roll. Vehicles sped off, Billy in the middle sedan, growing smaller, staring back at classmates with his hands against the rear glass.

And a look on his face: This is new.

PRESENT DAY, EARLY MARCH

Southwest Florida.

A white ’73 Dodge Challenger sped south over the Caloosahatchee River.

It came off the Edison Bridge into Fort Myers.

The driver’s head was out the window.

“Can you smell it?” said Serge, hair flapping in the wind.

“Smell what?” asked Coleman.

“You know what time of year this is?”

“Fall?”

“Spring!”

“I always get those confused.”

Serge’s head came back inside. “I love everything about spring! Reeks of hope, new lease on another year, blooming possibilities, lush beds of violet wildflowers along the interstate, nature’s annual migration: whooping cranes, manatees, Canadians.”

Coleman cracked a beer. “I’m into spring, too.”

“Who would have guessed?”

“Definitely! High Times named West Florida the ’shroom capital of the country. Each spring they sprout like crazy in cow poo.”

“I still don’t comprehend the allure,” said Serge. “You boil them into a tea, drink a giant tumbler, then turn green with cramps before running into the bathroom and sticking your finger down your throat.”

“Because you can’t let that poison build up in your body. I thought you were smart.”

“I’m overrated.” They continued west on MLK. “So what’s the point of these toadstool ceremonies?”

“To party!”

“But isn’t all that throwing up unpleasant?”

“Some things are worth vomiting for.”

“I think I’ve seen that crocheted on a pillow.”

Early-afternoon clouds parted. Patches of sunshine swept up the street.

“Excellent,” said Serge. “Afraid the game was going to get rained out.”

“Game?”

“Spring training is the best!”

Coleman looked at the running camcorder in the middle of the dashboard. “Your documentary?”

“Haven’t found the hook yet. Because the hook is key. Otherwise it’ll incorrectly look like I’m filming aimlessly.”

A distant siren from behind.

“Shit!” Coleman stuffed a joint in his mouth. “The Man!”

Woo-woo-woo-woo-woo!…

Serge checked the rearview. “Just a fire engine.” He hit his blinker and eased to the side of the road.

Traffic blew by.

Serge’s face reddened, cursing under his breath.

“What’s the matter?”

“Look at all these jackasses not pulling over for an emergency vehicle,” said Serge. “When the fuck did this deterioration start?”

Coleman twisted around in his seat. “We’re the only car stopped.”

“Another sign our civilization will soon be covered with dust.”

Coleman popped another beer. “What’s wrong with people?”

More cars sailed by as the siren grew louder.

“These are the first responders,” said Serge. “Our state’s finest, putting their lives on the line for the rest of us every single day, and what thanks do they get? A highway of dickheads who don’t want to miss the next traffic light.”