Imogen reviewed the flags. “I can identify most of these if you do the math.”
“Im, I suck at math.”
“You went to Dartmouth.”
“I was an English major.”
“Least helpful thing you’ve ever said.”
We were still sorting the flags when Barnes rode up solo, the cardio likely hindering Fortune. “No,” I snapped as Barnes came to help us.
“Imogen, reason with him. I was on the Foreign Affairs committee in Congress.”
“Wow, you had foreign affairs too?” she muttered.
Erika arrived moments later and plunged into the equations, ignoring me as much as I rebuffed Barnes…
Imogen brought me back. “What about the pair with the Union Jack and crests?”
I squinted at the flags; one had a conch shell and the other a turtle riding waves. “Arjun bought me a turtle keychain in Grand Cayman?”
“Works for me.” She scribbled the corresponding 27. “I’m only debating Indonesia.”
We’d narrowed it down to two practically identical flags when Barnes dropped his pen, calculations complete. “Well,I’mfinished.”
“Then go,” I answered.
As if on cue, a wheezing, dyspeptic Fortune dragged his bicycle down the road. He flung it like a twig, clamping his carabiner to Barnes. “Puzzle done?”
“Obviously,” Barnes answered. Before he could protest, Fortune began clomping up the hill, tugging Barnes like a yapping terrier. “Fortune, I was talking to them!”
“Im, we can beat them up the hill,” I pressed. “Just guess.”
She surveyed the two candidates. “Let’s hope Indonesia’s lucky number 3.”
As Imogen solved the equation, I tried one last time. “Erika, come with us!”
She refused to respond, and Imogen pulled me. “You didn’t want Barnes’ help either.”
We jogged up the hill, giving Fortune and Barnes a wide berth as we passed, until Barnes blurted out, “The code is 64-34-18! Don’t mess up just because you’re stubborn!”
I doggedly picked up the pace, but Imogen snagged. “I got 64-34-06,” she whispered.
I resented assistance from Barnes, but it was unlikely he was wrong. “Your call,” I said once we reached the gate and she grabbed the lock. Except it didn’t budge for 64-34-18.
“It’s not working!” she exclaimed when they arrived, Fortune erupting sweat like lava.
“Fortune, punch in 64-34-06,” Barnes ordered. He’d stalled us, and we fell for it. He then lunged at me with his carabiner, but Imogen yankedme back in time. “Would you two both just come on?!” Barnes said sharply, though I’d never accept his charity.
“You sure?” Fortune asked us. On principle, Imogen and I both nodded, and Fortune marched impassively into the trees, the unimpeachable steam engine with Barnes as his screaming unwilling caboose.
I apologized to Imogen on our obligatory run back down to the flags. It was evident that a two-on-two game would likely guarantee our loss, so I had no choice but to summon the tone I used when the kids proved disobedient. “Erika, you’re coming with us.”
Her back stayed turned, making it pretty easy to clip my carabiner onto her belt. “How fucking dare you?” she gasped.
“If we don’t play together, all three of us will lose to Barnes. Do you want to piss away everything you’ve fought for, or do you want to prove you can win?”
At that, a sleek white helicopter burst from the forest, no doubt who was on board. The camerawoman who had been silently tailing us panned from the sky to our reactions.
