They both slammed into the door of the Kangaroo, lightheaded and out of breath. They pushed but the doors wouldn't open. Alex was sure they were open 24 hours. He sunk to his knees on the concrete, one hand still on the door handle. After a couple of dry heaves he spit up a wad of something. Best not to think too hard about what it was.

Like a mile and change from Wintertree to the Kangaroo, at a dead sprint. Plus chasing Joanie all over West Campus earlier tonight. He hadn't run this much since, what, middle school probably? Those middle-school Olympics where every class was some random country and they spent all day out on the infield of the track, and they made him run the 1600 meters because everybody had to participate in at least one event? Christ, the only thing worse than spending all day in the goddamn sun was spending all day in the goddamn sun and then running a mile right after lunch.

From the looks of it, Tim hadn't hit the track much recently either, though at least he was still on his feet. "Tim," Alex said, "Tim, get the... get the cashier's attention... knock... knock on the door, Tim."

Tim reared back and pounded on the door, double-fisting it. Whatever that dude's Handbook had told him about Joanie, he was a true believer. "Hey! Hey! Let us in! It's an emergency!" The cashier, a ratty townie in a muscle shirt, watched them from behind the counter, deeply not giving a fuck. After about thirty seconds of Tim pounding, he sighed and came out to the entrance.

Tim stepped back as the cashier pushed open the door. "What."

"Sir, I know you're closed but we need to get some Gatorade. Please. It's a medical emergency. Please."

The cashier pointed at a sticker just above the door handle: OPEN 24 HRS. Then at another one, right below it: PULL. "Fucking college kids," he said. Then he walked back to the counter.

Tim pulled Alex to his feet and they staggered to the big row of refrigerated cases at the back. "No beer after eleven," the cashier shouted. Alex waved him off. They found the cooler with the Gatorade, rows of fat glistening jugs of liquid neon. Magic potions. Alex grabbed a Lemon-Lime, twisted off the cap and chugged half of it. "Come on, man," said the cashier. "You gotta pay for that."

"I'm gonna fucking pay for it!" Droplets of fluorescent yellow sprayed from Alex's mouth. He tilted back the bottle and gulped down the rest of it, then threw the empty bottle across the store to the cashier. "Ring it up!"

Tim reached for an electric blue Glacier Freeze, but Alex stopped him. "Lemon-Lime or nothing," he said.

"Isn't it all the same stuff?"

"No, man, this Glacier Freeze shit is like fucking New Coke. Lemon-Lime is Gatorade. When the scientists created it, they knew that was the optimum flavor formulation for electrolyte replenishment."

"You mean the scientists at the University of Florida? How optimum could it be, really?"

That blue jug was so seductive. Like a big fat chunk of Brazilian tourmaline. "Fine, you've convinced me. Let's get a few of each." They filled their arms with the treasure. Alex also grabbed a Lemon Ice, because Lemon Ice was maybe even better than Lemon-Lime.

At the counter, the cashier was holding the empty bottle. "You fucking throw this at me?"

"Dude, calm down. I told you I'll pay for it."

"Fuck you told me." The cashier bounced the bottle off of Alex's forehead. "This ain't your frat house, numbnuts. There are rules." He pointed to a placard on the register: WE RESERVE THE RIGHT TO REFUSE SERVICE TO ANYONE FOR ANY REASON. The guy had the attitude and patina of one of those deep townies you'd see late at night at the diner downtown, the O.G. dirt punks who still thought it was 1977. The Ancient Ones. But this dude was younger. Still in his twenties, probably. He had stringy dishwater-blond hair and an oversized nose, like Hunter Hearst Helmsley if he did heroin instead of steroids. There was a tattoo on his right bicep, some real freehand prison ink. So faded and scratchy he was barely legible, King Milo still held court. "I reserve the right."

"Sure. What are you going to do with it?" There must not have been any oxygen making it to Alex's brain. No good reason to provoke this dude.

"Oughtta beat your ass, what I oughtta do."

The last time you were in a fight was on one of those middle-school Olympics days. You told Miss Hammond you weren't going to run the 1600 again, so she stuck you on the basketball team. Now you got to run and demonstrate your lack of hand-eye coordination.

Your homeroom was representing Ireland, because why not. Your star player was Allen Reeves, a surly, hulking redneck who was repeating 7th grade. He was only a year older than you, but he looked 35 and he was terrifying. In your first game, against Xander's homeroom, Brazil, Allen dominated, scoring every one of Ireland's points. In the last minute of the game, Miss Hammond put you in. Xander went for a three-pointer and bricked. You didn't give a shit about the game, but you wanted something to lord over him. You and Allen both jumped for the rebound. The ball glanced off his fingers and fell into your hands. You took it and dribbled down the court. Xander tried to take the ball from you but you juked him, gloriously. This was going so much better than you could have imagined. You swung around toward the basket for an easy layup – and the ball bounced off the rim.

You heard a few laughs behind you. You turned to see if Xander was laughing, and Allen was charging at you, his face the blank mask of a pure psychopath. Dead shark's eyes. He shoved you, both hands in the chest, and you flew backwards. They gym floor knocked the wind out of you, and before you could even breathe, Allen was on you. He got one punch in, a glancing right that gave you a black eye for the next two weeks. Then something barreled into him and knocked him off you. You sat up, coughing, and saw four teachers trying to tear Xander and Allen apart as both homerooms cheered them on. They both got ISS for a week. You don't know where Allen is now, but you hope it's somewhere cold and dirty and without love of any kind.

Xander wouldn't hesitate. Xander would drop the Gatorade and explode into this guy. Or throw all the Gatorade at him first and then explode into him. He'd dive right over the counter, knock the dude back into the cigarette display and the rack of porno mags. Xander didn't worry too much about consequences, only results.

Tim looked like he worried about consequences. And then the consequences of those consequences. He was staring at the cashier's arm, fixated on the Milo tattoo. "Nice ink," said Alex.

The cashier sneered at the XANDER tattoo on his forearm. He jerked his head at Tim. "That your boyfriend's name?"

"I'm Tim," said Tim.

As the frontman of a band that has almost certainly received at least a few votes in The Ambassador's "Best Local Band" poll, you are used to wielding a certain amount of power. The stage can be an altar, and a microphone or guitar can be a conduit to something greater than oneself. That power certainly has its advantages. But if you have learned one thing from your study of rock stardom, it is that nothing is more destructive than the abuse of that power. Tempting, yes; the life you have chosen – or the life that has chosen you – comes with a certain amount of temptation, and only cowards and fools resist it completely. But for those in it for the long haul – those who, like yourself, believe in the holy power of music – throwing one's weight around can only lead to disaster.

Alex didn't really want to pull rank. But this fucking townie was really getting on Alex's nerves. And he felt like making an educated guess.

"I've got a request," Alex said. He set his armful of Gatorade on the counter, and motioned for Tim to do the same.

The cashier laughed at the presumption. "Fuck your request."

"Maybe not. I believe you'll find it reasonable."

Alex had guessed right. The cashier's sneer disappeared. Sure, he grumbled when Alex made him double-bag the bottles to prevent tragedy. He grumbled even more when they paid in a pile of singles and quarters pooled from both of their pockets. But he could grumble. For some people, grumbling was all they had.

Tim and Alex hefted their precious cargo and headed for the door. "Hey," said the cashier. "I recognize you. I seen your band."

What a twist: The townie was a fan! Always a treat to meet a fan. "Yeah?" said Alex.

"Yeah. You guys suck."

Sticks and stones, guy. True genius is never appreciated in its own time. Wouldn't want a dude like that as a fan anyway. Bad for the brand.

Outside a breeze cut through the still night air, chilling the bloom of sweat on Alex's back. He walked to the edge of the parking lot's circle of light. He could see Sluke in the distance, down a slight incline, a brilliant white void in the darkness, like someone had scratched off the black paint to reveal fresh paper underneath. Across from it, the fires of Wintertree glowed in the little square windows. He wasn't sure why the lights appeared so orange from the outside, but there was lots he didn't understand about that place. He'd gotten out as soon as he had the chance.

Somewhere there was a picture of Alex standing in this exact spot, with those same lights behind him. A Polaroid Renee took on the night they met. He hoped she wasn't too mad at him. He should find some way to show her that he would go to these lengths for her too.

Alex weighed the bags of Gatorade in his hands. He turned to Tim and asked "You ready?" But Tim wasn't with him. He was over by the pumps, staring at a car. A black Jetta, covered in dust. In the grime someone had drawn a crude King Milo. The nozzle was in the gas tank but there was no driver to be seen. "Tim. Come on," said Alex.

"Do you know about these?" Tim pointed at the Milo. "These are important. I was following them tonight. That's how I found Joanie."

"Yeah, man, everybody knows about Milo." Some freshmen, they just got hooked on that shit. They needed their symbols and secret codes and everything to make sense of the big scary world. They traded in Mommy and Daddy for Milo and the Handbook. Alex got it. He'd been there. But he didn't have time for it right now.

"I think I was supposed to see this. He's leading me somewhere."

"Dude! There's like eight billion of those stupid faces on campus. You start playing connect-the-dots with them, they'll lead you wherever you want to go. They'll make the fucking Mona Lisa."

Tim hesitated. There was like a physical pull between him and the Milo. Alex felt it too, still. Sometimes. Fucking Milo. There was a dude who was abusing his power. Stupid fake dead freshman, couldn't even find his own dorm room. Now he's a god, basically. Alex really needed to sit down and reverse-engineer that shit some day, see what kind of lessons he could apply to the 'Shakers.

Alex heard the clack of a door being unlocked. The handle on the bathroom door on the side of the Kangaroo started to turn. If Tim got to talking with the Jetta's driver, they'd be here all night.

Alex walked over to the pumps and grabbed Tim by the arm. "Let's go, man. Joanie needs these." That seemed to get through to the kid. "If you want to help her, let's get back to the dorm. Okay?"

Tim took a last look back at the Milo. "Okay." Alex gave him a little push, to get his feet moving. Alex took a deep, satisfying breath. He was getting his second wind. This must be what those Doctors Without Borders dudes felt like all the time. Just high on saving lives. The bathroom door opened, but Alex never saw who emerged. He took off, sucking wind, straining unfamiliar muscles, exulting in his own selflessness. He was needed.

Tim has a choice to make.

What's your favorite Gatorade flavor? I'm with Alex - Lemon-Lime is the classic for a reason, but Lemon Ice was kind of amazing for the brief period it was available.