Notes

The pinball machine didn’t steal Fitch Thomas’s quarter. Not really. But when one of the flippers is broken, there’s no point in playing. As soon asFitch realized this, something sparked inside him. Something ugly and familiar. He stared at the slot where he’d sunk his quarter only momentsbefore.Easy does it, Fitch. Just go to Mr. Hindley’s office and get your quarterback. No big deal. The blinking lights of the machine—Bright Star One, it was called—seemed out of place in the arcade today. Fitch looked around. He was one of the only people there. Maybe it was too early for people.It was never too early for him.READY FOR TAKEOFF, the lights blazed. He left them behind and
walked to Mr. Hindley’s office.The door with MANAGER stenciled above the frame was open, as usual.Mr. Hindley was manager, owner, and staff. When quarters were stolen, hewas the man to see.Fitch cleared his throat.“Mr. Hindley?” he said.Mr. Hindley looked up from his ledger. “Henry Nelson Thomas, myfavorite patron! What brings you to the front office?” This was what Mr. Hindley always said, even though no one called himHenry and Mr. Hindley’s office was in the back corner of the small arcade.Nowhere near the front.Fitch motioned half-heartedly toward pinball row.“One of the machines is broken,” he said.Mr. Hindley placed both hands on his desk and stood up, like PresidentReagan ready to face the Soviets.“That is unacceptable, patron Thomas,” he said.Mr. Hindley was what Fitch’s mother would call “an odd duck,” but hemoved fast. Within seconds he was in front of the Major Havoc game in thecenter of the arcade, squinting at the screen.“Not that one,” Fitch said. He pointed at Bright Star One. “This one.”Mr. Hindley raised his eyebrows. “But you’re a Major Havoc guy. Onefrom all, all from one, fighting for humanity and all that.”Yes, it was true. On any given day, Fitch could be found at the Park,Delaware, arcade—officially named the Pinball Wizard, but known to thelocals as the “arcade on Main”—playing Major Havoc, a game that his bestfriend, Vern Repass, said was a “Star Wars wannabe,” even though MajorHavoc had been released first, but whatever. Vern was so obsessed with StarWars that Fitch had developed unfounded resentment toward Luke, HanSolo, and the whole lot of them. (Except Vader, maybe. Vader was kindacool.) The more Vern ragged on Major Havoc, the more dedicated anddefensive Fitch became, and now he was so preoccupied with beating hisown high score that Major Havoc—in all his vector-graphic glory—sometimes appeared in his dreams, demanding that he get to the reactorbefore everyone exploded.But today was January first, and Fitch had made a New Year’s resolutionto try something different. The last time he was here, his twin sister had comealong and been entranced by Bright Star One, with its spaceship and lights.
She didn’t want to actually play it—video games were not her thing—but shetried to convince him to give it a chance. He’d snapped at her to leave himalone, then felt bad about it later. So he’d gone for the pinball machine thismorning, even though no one played pinball anymore. And now look whathad happened.Mr. Hindley made his way to Bright Star One and tapped itaffectionately.“What’s wrong with it?” he asked.“The right flipper’s broken,” replied Fitch.Mr. Hindley pushed the button. When nothing happened, he said, “It’simpossible to play a respectable game of pinball with just one flipper.”Duh, Fitch thought.Mr. Hindley disappeared into the office and emerged seconds later with asheet of paper with “OUT OF ORDER” written across it in fat black letters.The smell of Magic Marker wafted in the air as he taped it across Bright StarOne.“Thanks for the heads-up, patron Thomas,” Mr. Hindley said. He smiled.It was wide and pleasant and took up most of his face. “Anything else I canhelp you with?”Yeah, you can give me my quarter, Fitch thought. But he didn’t say it outloud. The fire was too bright.THE MOOD OF A HOUSE Ten seconds before Fitch’s twin sister, Bernadette Nelson Thomas, openedher eyes, she thought: If there’s a five on the alarm clock, it will be a goodday. When the digital numbers glowed 2:32 p.m.—no fives in sight—she
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