s --
running over _ninety-five miles per hour_! If you hurry, you can beat the line!"
He looked the youngest in the eye at the start of the speech, then switched to
the middle when he talked about the line.

The youngest started vibrating with excitement, and the middle looked pensive,
and then to the eldest said, "Sounds good, huh, Tom?"

The eldest said, "We haven't even found out where we're sleeping yet -- maybe we
can do the ride afterwards."

George winked at the youngest, then said, "Don't worry about it, kids. I'll get
that sorted out for you right now." He picked up the white house phone and asked
the operator to connect him with Guest Services. "Hi there! This is George on
the midway! I need reservations for three young men for tonight -- a suite, I
think, with in-room Nintendo and a big-screen TV. They look like they'd enjoy
the Sportaseum. OK, I'll hold," he covered the mouthpiece and said to the boys,
"You'll love the Sportaseum -- the chairs are shaped like giant catcher's mitts,
and the beds are giant Air Jordans, and the suite comes with a regulation
half-court. What name should I put the reservation under?"

The eldest said, "Tom Mitchell."

George made the reservation. "You're all set," he said. "The monorails run right
into the hotel lobby, every ten minutes. Anyone with a name tag can show you to
the nearest stop. Here's a tip -- try the football panzerotto: it's a fried
pizza turnover as big as a football, with beef-jerky laces. It's _my_ favorite!"

"I want a football!" the youngest said.

"We'll have it for dinner," the eldest said, looking off at the skyline of
coaster-skeletons in the distance. "Let's go on some rides first."

George beamed his idiot's grin at them as they left, then his face went slack
and he went back to wiping down the surfaces. A moment later, a hand reached
across the counter and plucked the cloth from his grip. He looked up, startled,
into Joe's grinning face. Unlike his brothers', Joe's face was all sharp angles
and small teeth. Nobody knew what a child of a tongue was supposed to look like,
but George had always suspected that Joe wasn't right, even for a third son.

"Big guy!" Joe shouted. "Workin' hard?"

George said, "Yes." He stood, patiently, waiting for Joe to give him the cloth
back.

Joe held it over his head like a standard, dancing back out of reach, even
though George hadn't made a grab for it. George waited. Joe walked back to his
counter and gave i