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work, never bothering to look up.
    “You told me to be here.”
    “Do you know why I told you to be here?” Mr. Jenkins queried.
    “Because I wasn’t paying attention in class,” John sighed.
    “And why weren’t you paying attention?”
    “Because something weird was going on outside and it distracted me.”
    “Something weird?” Mr. Jenkins repeated.
    “Yeah,” said John.
    “Well, young man,” he lectured. “Lots of weird things happen in this world, but if you concentrate on the task at hand, weird things don’t distract you, do they?”
    “I guess not.”
    “You can take a seat and write me a haiku on why you weren’t paying attention in class; and remember to keep it as authentic as possible.”
    “Yes, sir,” John replied as he sat down at one of the desks, took out a pen and began staring at the piece of paper in front of him. He tried very hard to get into the moment and expand it into a poem but nothing would come. His mind remained blank, and all he could think about was the comic book burning a hole in his backpack.
    Time passed very slowly, until there was a knock at the door. Mr. Jenkins stretched his long form lazily, stood up, walked to the door and stepped outside. John saw it as a moment of opportunity; he scribbled on the paper, grabbed his backpack and left by another door.
    ***
    In the hallway Mr. Jenkins stared at a security guard.
    “Everybody has to leave the building, sir.”
    “What do you mean?” asked the teacher. “I have work to do.”
    “I appreciate that, sir, but I also have a job to do, and my orders are to clear the building.”
    “But I have a student on detention; and he’s trying to compose a poem!” Mr. Jenkins said irritably.
    “Well, he’ll have to do it outside,” the guard replied.
    Resigned, the teacher returned to the classroom. Not seeing John, he walked over to the desk and picked up the piece of paper he had left behind. “ Excuse this room without me in it, I’ll be back in just a minute,” he recited out loud and smiled. “Not bad,” he added, “not bad at all!”
    ***
     
    John rushed across the huge ballroom, disappeared into the bathroom, hurried into one of the stalls, pulled the comic book from his backpack and began to devour it. His passion for comic books was hard for him to break; they supplied food for his imagination, nourishment for his psyche, and sustenance for his soul. He had to read at least one a day, even if he’d read it before. There were hundreds of them stacked in the bottom of his closet; they were his stash, his sanity. Just knowing they were there elevated his comfort level; his life would be meaningless without them.
    ***
    The teacher waddled out of the school carrying a briefcase stuffed with exercise books. The guard waited for him at the door.
    “Goodnight, sir,” he said. “By the way, what happened to that kid?”
    “He left,” Mr. Jenkins replied.
    “Did he finish his poem?”
    “Yes, and it was quite good too.”
    “I’m glad to hear it,” the guard said as he closed the door, locked it, and began patrolling the perimeter.
    ***
    Doctor Leitz stalked down the spiral staircase toward the ballroom with Hunter following close behind.
    “So, where’s the lab, Doc?” Hunter asked, puffing on his cigar.
    “You’re standing in it,” Leitz replied.
    Hunter surveyed the huge empty space. “I don’t know what kind of trick you’re trying to pull,” he said, “but there’s nothing here.”
    Leitz crossed the room and opened a panel in the wall. Then he took a key from his pocket, inserted it into a lock, turned it, and pressed a large red button above it.
    Hunter looked on in wonder as the nineteenth century ballroom began to metamorphose into a twenty-first century laboratory. Thick shutters slid down and covered all of the windows. Shiny aluminum air ducts came out of secret compartments in the ceiling and descended downward. The floor opened up and a stainless steel control panel emerged, and