Zeke Bartholomew by Jason Pinter

were slick rock, slimy, and the whole place smelled dank. There was barely any light. But I knew the way by heart. “Follow me.”
    I led the way, Sparrow’s shoes clacking on the rocks behind me. I’d memorized the path a long time ago. One hundred thirty-seven paces forward—to the T-junction. At the T-junction, we made a left. Forty-two paces to the next junction. From there we made a right.
    â€œI hope you know what you’re doing,” Sparrow whispered.
    â€œShh,” I said. “You’ll make me lose focus and then we’ll be lost.”
    â€œLost? Are you kidding? Where are we, Zeke?”
    â€œCalm down. I’m kidding. I know exactly where we are. Geez, were you born in a dark tunnel or something?”
    Sparrow didn’t respond. I looked back. Something I’d said had clearly touched a nerve, because she was staring down at the rocks. Water whooshed between us. The mystery of Sparrow was deepening. I wanted to ask what the problem was, but if the goons were right, there wasn’t much time before Operation Songbird—whatever it was—took effect.
    At the latest junction, we took the roundabout until we came to a long, dark corridor. I remembered the very first time I’d come down here. It was three years earlier. Kyle had finished a little league game. He was pitching. At the time, he was only nine inches or so taller than everybody else. His blazing fastball made the other boys in our grade flail like they were swatting invisible flies. After the game, while the teams were shaking hands, one of the opposing kids tripped Kyle. He went down like a broken branch.
    Everyone laughed at him. Even the kids on his own team. The kids he’d just helped win. I was in the stands with my dad. I felt awful watching it. Kyle lay there, embarrassed. Finally the kids all left. I told my dad I’d meet him at home. I went out to the pitcher’s mound, where Kyle was sitting with his face in his glove. I told him he didn’t need those jerks. He didn’t say anything. We spent the afternoon talking. He said he wanted to play baseball in college, maybe the pros, but didn’t think he could handle it if things were like this. He said he didn’t want to be a geek forever. I told him that the kids who were geeks in school ended up the most successful people ever. Bill Gates was a geek. That guy who invented Facebook was a geek. George Lucas? Steven Spielberg? Mega-geeks. I told him he should be proud to be a geek—because we would inherit the earth. Or at least invent cool new software.
    We walked around the outfield and eventually stumbled across the shed. Kyle said sometimes he wished he could crawl into a dark hole and disappear. That’s when I took the dime out of my pocket and said, “Now’s our chance.”
    I unscrewed the grate, and the rest is history.
    Eighty-four paces after the roundabout, Sparrow and I came to a door. It was barely visible in the gloom. Kyle and I had found the door by accident. It was the greatest discovery of our lives. Kyle had put a large Master Lock padlock on it. The combination was 9-29-14.
    â€œAre you ready?” I asked.
    â€œFor what?” Sparrow replied. “More murk?”
    I ignored the comment. I gripped the lock and entered the combination. It released. I removed it and put it in my pocket.
    Then I gently pushed the door open. Sparrow’s eyes opened wide.
    â€œWhoa…this is…”
    â€œThe GeekDen,” I said. “The name is a work in progress.”
    â€œProgress,” Sparrow said absently. “Right.”
    She stepped into the GeekDen and took in her surroundings. I felt a faint burst of pride as she surveyed the cave Kyle and I had built over the last few years.
    The walls were lined with dozens of shelves, each of which was piled high with circuitry, wiring, and various battery packs. A workbench at the far end held every kind of tool imaginable, all