I pull myself up. "Wow," I say, brushing the dust off. "Got knocked back by charging testosterone, there."

Whit manages to laugh at my lame joke, then surprises me with a fake bull charge, shoulder to gut.

"Yeah! We're gonna take 'em down!" he yells.

"Yee-ha!" a bunch of little voices shout. What now?

We turn and see the most ragamuffiny band of ragamuffins poking their heads out of the doorway of a boarded-up video-game store.

"Who are you?" I ask, wide-eyed. They're clearly not so nervous that they don't want to be seen, but not so trusting that they want to be in arm's reach.

One little boy with an incredible burr-tangled mane of brown-blond hair steps forward.

"Are you guys regular people?" he asks. He can't be much past the third grade.

"If you mean we're not brainwashed by the New Order, yeah," I say. "We're not. Where are your parents?"

"They're gone. We don't know where. Taken."

"Taken?"

"The soldiers put them in trucks and stole 'em away," he says. Some of the smaller boys and girls start to rub tears from their eyes.

A flash of emotion crosses Whit's face. Sympathy, empathy-call it what you will. My brother's not exactly a softy, except when he ought to be. He takes off his knapsack and puts it on the ground in front of him, then rests his hands on it for a moment with his eyes closed.

And then-it's the most surreal thing-a puppy and two kittens poke their heads out of the bag.

The children's sorrow turns to wonder and laughter as the puppy and kittens scamper out of the bag. The kids who can't get in to pet the animals are looking back at Whit with awe. Frankly, so am I. "Whoa!" I say.

Now he's pulling back on his collar, and white doves are fluttering out of his shirt and up into the sky. And now-gross!-he sneezes and a cloud of yellow bees comes out of his nose and zooms up after the doves. The kids are laughing hysterically.