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him. He looked weirdly stiff.
    “He’s awake,” I said.
    “Wouldn’t you be?” Frank asked.
    Well, yeah. It actually impressed me that Neanderthal was getting any sleep at all these days. I would have a reallyhard time forgetting that someone was about to break into my room and broadcast my sleeping form on the Web. You’d have to count a lot of sheep to fall asleep under those circumstances, I figured. I thought of my own tried-and-true trick to get myself to sleep: counting, naming, and picturing the crooks Frank and I had put away, one by one, starting from the earliest and moving on toward the most recent. There was Bruce Fishkill, the kid who’d stolen the class hamster in first grade. Nasty little kid—and I know it’s not nice to call children nasty but really, this kid was something else. When we went out for recess after it rained, he would run around stomping on all the worms who’d been flooded out of their holes. And that still doesn’t even come close to what he did to Jeannie Gilbright’s chocolate milk that one time. . . .
    “Joe. JOE!”
    I was startled awake by a swift kick from my brother.
    “Not in the milk!” I mumbled, blinking and shaking my head.
    Frank was pointing at the computer screen. “Get serious, bro. We’ve got action here.”
    I swiped the backs of my hands over my eyes and sat up, feeling dizzy. Frank was pointing at the picture of Neanderthal sleeping—and he did really seem to be sleeping now.
    “What’s up?” I asked. “I don’t see any—OH, CRAP!”
    My brother and I have seen a lot of things, and generally, I think you’ll find, we’re pretty unflappable. But sometimesyou see something and the only proper human response is OH, CRAP!
    Like when you’re watching live video of one of your classmates sleeping and a figure dressed all in black, and wearing one of those rubber Halloween masks—Jay Leno, I think—suddenly pops into the bottom right corner of the image and waves at the camera.
    “What is he doing?” I asked, thinking out loud. I have a nasty habit of doing that when I’m under stress. “What is he doing there? Is he going to—OH, CRAP!”
    Another figure appeared in the bottom left corner, this one wearing a Conan O’Brien mask, and also waved. Then they both turned and started advancing toward Neanderthal.
    Frank grabbed his phone off his nightstand. “That’s it. I’m calling the police.”
    I didn’t argue.
    “I thought this was a prank,” I said as Frank dialed 911. “It was creepy, sure, but I thought it was harmless.”
    The moment the word “harmless” left my mouth, Jay Leno grabbed Neanderthal’s sleeping form, lifted him from the pillow, and— BLAM! —punched him in the face.
    Frank’s mouth dropped open. “Oh my— Hello? Yes, I’m calling to report a break-in and assault at 83 Hillside Drive. . . .”
    There was no sound in the video, but Neanderthal was definitely awake now, and I could see him let out a screambefore Conan pulled out a few inches of duct tape and stuck it over his mouth.
    Together, Jay and Conan pulled Neanderthal off the bed. He was out of frame, but I could see the two masked intruders railing back to punch him again.
    Frank was finishing up his call. “Okay. Okay, then. Thank you.”
    He clicked off his phone and looked at me. His expression was serious. “They’re sending the police.” Then he reached over to his desk and grabbed the car keys.
    “Let’s go save a football player,” he said grimly.
    •   •   •
    A police cruiser was already sitting in the Bunyans’ driveway when we arrived, lights flashing.
    Frank and I jumped out of the car and ran up to the front door. Through the window, we could see quite the little convention gathered in the brightly lit living room: Sharelle, her mother, two officers . . . but I didn’t see Neanderthal.
    A big, burly man with wild gray hair and a bushy mustache pulled open the door and regarded us suspiciously. “You two called