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blade aside in a messy shower of mustard-splattered cardboard, candy wrappers, and nacho-gooped napkins.
    Floss Hair spun and slashed backward, but Dawkins was ready for the move and used the flat of the tray like a shield to block the blade.
    “Behind you,” I warned. Mr. Clean was half a car away but jogging forward.
    “He’s still out of reach,” Dawkins said, glancing over his shoulder. “Plenty of time for me t o — ”
    He parried another thrust from Floss Hair, using the tray to push the blade aside. Floss Hair tried to step back, but Dawkins was too quick: He swung the tray straight up against the man’s jaw with an audible snap. Floss Hair’s eyes rolled back and he slumped unconscious to the floor.
    A split second later, Dawkins had the man’s sword clenched in his right hand, and brought it around in time to deflect the bald man’s blade at his back.
    Mr. Clean hopped out of range, edging alongside the snack bar.
    “Now this is more like it,” Dawkins said, swinging the sword in the air. With his left hand, he whipped the food tray forward like a Frisbee.
    It caught Mr. Clean in the shin with a loud crack. It sounded like it hurt, but the man didn’t say a word, just winced and fell to his knees.
    “Where’s your Hand?” Dawkins demanded of the man.
    “What’s he talking about?” Greta asked me.
    “Hands, maybe?” I whispered, confused.
    As if in response, the man raised his left arm, gestured at the snack bar, made a fist, then opened his palm toward Dawkins. There was a blast of wind, and all the junk on the counte r — n apkins, coffee stirrers, salt and pepper packets, a coffeepo t — f lew forward.
    “ Down ! ” Dawkins yelled.
    Greta and I dove under the table.
    As I did, I glimpsed Dawkins swirling the blade around himself in a bright halo of steel, his sword arm moving blindingly fast as he carved his way through the airborne trash. None of it touched him.
    With a quick thwip-thwip -thwip , the vinyl bench where we’d just been sitting suddenly bristled with little spike s — c offee stirrers, I realized, sunk inches deep into the cushions.
    “You guys are in so much trouble,” Greta whispered.
    There was a sharp, piercing ring of steel on steel, an earsplitting clash of swords.
    I peeked around the corner of the booth. Dawkins and Mr. Clean swung and hacked at each other, grunting and panting with every slash and thrust. Within a handful of seconds, they’d each struck and parried a dozen times.
    But Dawkins was the better swordsman.
    Mr. Clean was hemmed in by the narrow passage between the snack bar and the wall of the dining car and couldn’t really swing his spadroon.
    “Ronan?” Dawkins called back over his shoulder.
    I stuck my head out. “Yeah?”
    “That bleach-haired bloke by the window? Search him.” Floss Hair looked almost peaceful, like a businessman who had just decided to take a nap on the dining car floor.
    “You mean, like, go through his pockets?”
    “Yes, Rona n — t hat’s what search usually means.” Dawkins lunged after Mr. Clean, slashing in great sweeps, driving the bald man back.
    I crawled across the carpet to Floss Hair’s side, and nearly yelped when I saw Greta on her hands and knees right beside me.
    “What?” she said. “I’m not staying back there alone.” There was a wild glint in her eyes. “Go on. Search him.”
    Before I did, though, I watched Dawkins snap his toe down hard on the edge of the food tray where it lay on the floor. It popped into the air and he caught it just as Mr. Clean thrust his sword. The man’s blade sank three inches into the tray, then stuck.
    “Fiberglass!” Dawkins said, wrenching the tray sideways and yanking Mr. Clean’s sword from his opponent’s hand. He dropped the impaled tray and casually walked forward, swishing the point of his spadroon left and right.
    Mr. Clean turned and ran to the bathroom, folding the accordion door shut behind him and locking it
    “Fine,” Dawkins said. “You