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They called themselves “The Shire.”
    Andy Dent was dressed the same as the four boys with him. Each wore a nice button-down shirt and a solid-colored tie. The group’s lone girl, Hilary Eichel, wore stylish white-rimmed eyeglasses, plaid skater skirt with dark leggings, and underneath her white button-down blouse—Hilary adhered to the school dress code as well—a fitted T-shirt that read: THINK LIKE A PROTON AND STAY POSITIVE. The words on her T-shirt were barely legible through her overshirt’s fabric. However, the near-frantic look on Hilary’s face, and those of her friends, said nobody was in a particularly positive mood.
    In the background, a sea of students, most carrying backpacks, ambled from one building to another. They chatted easily with friends, or buried their faces in their smartphones. It was a normal March scene at Pepperell Academy; but for The Shire, things were far from normal. They looked away from each other, as no one felt comfortable being the first to break the silence.
    Rafa spoke up finally.
    “We have to get this over with,” he said. “I have track practice.”
    Two of the six members of The Shire were on school-sponsored sports teams. Rafael Dufoe, who had curly, black hair, olive skin, and the whisper of a mustache, could run an 800-meter race in two minutes, eight seconds, which was not the best in the state, or even at The Pep, but it did put him a few strides ahead of some other runners. “Rafa,” the nickname his friends in The Shire gave him, was exceedingly thin. Some thought he had an eating disorder or digestive problem, but neither was true. Rafa simply had the metabolism of a hummingbird.
    Andy seethed and his face went red. He addressed Rafa through gritted teeth. “Your track practice can wait,” he said. “I think this is just a little bit more important.”
    Andy was the group’s founder and de facto leader, and it was his text message that had brought them all together. “It’s been over a week since it went missing. One of us has it,” Andy said, his voice shaky, “and one of us better fess up. Solomon?”
    Solomon Burke was the other athlete in the group. As the captain of Pepperell Academy’s bowling team, Solomon had led the school to a championship two years running. While few students at The Pep considered bowling a sport—most would call it a recreational activity—Solomon had a different opinion. He was a cranker, which meant he created as much spin as possible by using a cupped wrist with his delivery. Spin was what made the bowling ball hook, and it was also the reason Solomon had recorded two 300 games and bowled a 274, 258, and 279 at his last tournament. Somewhat fittingly, Solomon’s physique matched the shape of the ball with which he had crushed the school’s bowling record.
    “I told you, I don’t have it,” Solomon snapped. “I don’t.”
    Solomon looked close to tears.
    They were all on the verge of tears. Pallid complexions. Bags under the eyes because there hadn’t been a good night’s sleep among them. Shoulders hunched, weighted down with dread.
    Hilary Eichel gave Solomon a hard stare, but she couldn’t tell if he was lying or not. Hilary often referred to her friends Rafa and Solomon as “Abbott and Costello.” It was a joke few at The Pep could appreciate; most students knew nothing about Abbott and Costello, and would not understand the reference.
    As a self-proclaimed geek, Hilary embraced the Geek Chic style with flair. An attractive girl, Hilary got a lot of attention from the boys because of her looks. When they tried to flirt, she’d intentionally yawn. This usually sent them away. She had hazel eyes, long-layered brown hair, with ginger-colored strands, and a pert nose. She was in good shape, and could probably beat Rafa in a race if they ever went head to head, but Hilary was more mathlete than athlete. She already had taken two semesters of AP calculus and was currently acing her college-level statistics and