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law.” Henry pushed himself off. For a moment he hung with both hands gripping the bottom step, his feet still about eight feet off the ground, then he dropped, hitting feet first, the heels of his boots punching into the soft ground.
    â€œSee? No problem.”
    A few seconds later a squad car pulled up to the grassy apron. Gerry Kramer, one of St. Andrew Valley’s oldest and grayest cops, got out of the car and walked up to us, shaking his head.
    â€œYou kids … is that Henry Stagg? I thought we talked about this, Henry,”
    â€œTalked about what?” Henry put on his
Who me?
face.
    Kramer wasn’t buying it. Henry trying to act innocent is like a wolverine trying to act cuddly.
    â€œHenry, Henry, Henry … what are we gonna do with you?”
    â€œI don’t know what you’re talking about,” Henry said, trying to hold back a grin.
    Kramer stared until Henry lowered his eyes. “I don’t need any more of these nuisance calls, Henry. Next time I get a kid-on-the-water-tower call, you’re going downtown.”
    â€œI wasn’t
on
the water tower, officer. Did you
see
me?”
    â€œNo, I didn’t, but that doesn’t change the facts. You were seen. I know it was you up there.”
    â€œSo how did I get up there? You think I flew?”
    Kramer shook his head, as perplexed as the rest of us. “You got up there somehow.”
    â€œI guess I musta flew.”
    â€œWell, you can fly home right now. I don’t want to see you—” He crossed his thick arms and looked at the rest of us. “—
any
of you around here again. You hear me?”
    â€œYes, sir,” said Dan. Dan is terrified of authority figures.
    We edged away, feeling Kramer’s hard eyes on our backs. As soon as we were out of earshot, Henry said, “What an asshole.”
    â€œHe’s just doing his job,” Dan said.
    â€œYeah, well he can shove it.” We reached the sidewalk and continued walking up Louisiana Avenue. It felt strange to be walking beside Henry Stagg, but the confrontation with the law somehow bound us together.
    â€œDid he catch you up there before?” I asked.
    â€œJust once. A couple weeks ago.”
    â€œWhat were you doing up there?” Dan asked.
    â€œI like it. You can see forever. You can see the school. I can see my house.”
    â€œYou ever go all the way to the top?” Shin asked.
    â€œSure, all the time.”
    â€œWhat’s up there?”
    â€œAll kinds of stuff.”
    â€œLike what?”
    â€œYou should check it out, Schinner.”
    â€œYou’re not supposed to.”
    â€œWell then, you’ll never know, will you?”
    Shin shook his head and drew his mouth into a knot.
    â€œSo how
did
you get up?” I asked.
    â€œLike I said, I flew.”
    Father Haynes ends his tedious sermon and launches into the Nicene Creed. I know all the parts of the mass. I used to be an altar boy, one of those kids sweating uncomfortably in their black-and-white polyester robes. That was back before I realized that it was mostly made up.
    Henry never told us how he got up to that bottom step, and it’s been bugging me. All I can figure out is thathe brought a ladder, or somehow swung a rope up. But where did the rope or ladder go? Maybe it’s some sort of religious miracle—but I don’t believe in miracles.
    Take, for instance, the miracle that Father Haynes is about to perform.
    The so-called miracle of Holy Communion is my least favorite part of the mass. It’s the part where everybody gets up and stands in line to eat a communion wafer—what they call the host. Have you ever eaten a host?
    I once read a short story about some cannibals who didn’t turn their victims into steaks and chops and roasts; they made them all into sausages. Because when you’re eating a sausage you don’t think so much about what you’re eating. It’s the same with