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chimed in before my father could answer.
    “Bloody hell, I think you guys got the better view,” Mr. Kinney said with a laugh.
    “I can’t let you pay for this,” my father told him, extracting his hand from the viselike grip and tucking it into his pocket to give it a chance to heal.
    “I appreciate that offer, Morris, I really do,” Randolph said. “But this one’s on me. I thought our team should all be together. It’s the least I can do to thank you for coming. It isn’t every day that I get to play on a team with a real, authentic grandmaster. It’s an honor, a real honor. I’m humbled.”
    My father looked back at him, speechless.
    Randolph Kinney turned to me. “And a big hello also to the grandmaster’s son,” he announced, stepping over and holding out his hand. “Daniel, right?”
    I backed up half a step and hesitated, but there seemed to be no way of avoiding this. I reached out tentatively and he seized my palm as if he intended to wring blood out of it. “We’re gonna win this thing,” he assured me, grinning and doing his best to crush all the small bones in my right hand. “We’re gonna kick butt. We’re going to slay them. Right?”
    “I hope so,” I gasped.
    “There’s no ‘hope so’ about it,” he said, and for a moment his voice had an edge to it. “When we play, we play to win. And we’ve got the goods!”
    He released my hand and glanced at his watch. “The first round starts in forty minutes. Let’s have a team meeting in my suite in ten minutes, and we’ll all go down to the tournament together. We’re in 2206. Grandmaster, given that you have the highest rating, I think you should deliver the team prayer.”
    “The team prayer?” my dad echoed.
    “Keep it short and sweet.” Randolph was halfway to the door. “An honor, Grandmaster, a real honor,” he said. “Oh, and don’t worry about dinner after the round. I booked us into a little Tribeca steak house that I know. We need to eat some red meat after we draw first blood.” Then he was gone.
    My dad threw his arms into the air. “Daniel, this is preposterous. I knew this was going to happen. Chess tournaments lead you right down the rabbit hole. We should go get our car, drive back home, and wake up in our normal beds before the world tilts any more, which believe me it will. Let’s get out of here now.”
    I glanced at the clock. “Eight minutes and counting,” I told him. “If I were you, Dad, I’d be working on the team prayer.”

 
    8
     
    My father wouldn’t come out of the bedroom. “Dad, we’re late for the team meeting. They’ve already called twice,” I shouted. There was no answer from inside. I stepped closer to the door. “Pop?” I opened his bedroom door a crack. “Are you okay?”
    I hesitated and stepped inside. There was no sign of him in the bedroom, and then I felt cold air and saw that one window was open.
    Then I heard something from his bathroom. It was a loud, unpleasant heaving sound. It let up and then came again even louder. I ran to the door and yanked it open and saw him on his knees, retching into the toilet. I stepped over to him. “Dad, are you okay? Should I call a doctor?”
    He flushed the toilet and struggled to his feet, looking a little pale. “Don’t worry,” he gasped. He ran some cold water and wiped his face and toweled off. “This is normal … for me … before a tournament starts.”
    “You don’t look so good,” I told him. “You can’t play in this condition…”
    “The first round starts in twenty-five minutes,” he responded, checking his watch. He took a gulp of cold tap water, gargled, and spat it out. “Let’s go.” As we walked through the bedroom, he paused to close the window. “Just needed some fresh air,” he told me. “I always feel claustrophobic before round one.”
    He led me out into the living area, walking more purposefully now, face tight but resigned, back straight and head held high—like a man marching