![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() Backpack slung over one shoulder, face pressed against the glass where the painted words read “No gum allowed in this building,” Randall made smudges with his mouth and pounded the door with a gloved fist. “Hey, Spagoski!” Randall Fleming yelled through the thick glass doors, startling Miles. He loved his family’s bowling center first thing in the morning, before his dad put the oldies rock station on to play through the crackly speaker system, before pins crashed on lanes 1 through 48, before video games near the snack counter beeped and blinked and beckoned. Miles relaxed, as much as someone like him could relax, onto a stool behind the front counter and kicked off his worn sneakers. Miles Spagoski jogged the four blocks to his family’s bowling center, shivering and imagining ways he might die-a frozen tree limb could crack off and land on his head, a distracted driver fiddling with a car’s heating controls could swerve onto the sidewalk and plow him flat, or, if he was outside long enough, plain old hypothermia could be the end of his short, sad story.īut the moment Miles entered Buckington Bowl, his worries melted away like snowflakes on a warm palm. ![]()
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