As Hal walked into the parking lot, the hair on the back of his neck lifted. His arms goosebumped. The sounds of the fair—tribal drumming, the beehive drone of countless overlapping voices, the silver plinking of fingers across guitar strings—faded, and the slow, measured beat of his heart pulsed through his consciousness. He slowed his stride. An ominous vibe thickened the air. “On your left,” a voice intoned. A bell ching-chinged. Hal drew in a breath and straight-armed Galahad and Nick to safety against a van painted with green and pink-petaled flowers, then whirled, catch pole flashing up and out and whacking against the chest of a helmeted bicyclist. The blow knocked the rider off the bike and shuddered up the length of Hal’s arm and into his shoulder. As if in slow motion, the rider hung in the air a moment, face contorted, then time snapped like a chewing-gum bubble and the rider slammed into the ground. Dirt puffed into the air.
