12
“Halli Markham!” shouts a voice from inside as soon as I open the door. A man strides toward me so fast it’s like he’s on wheels.
“There we are now, Miss. That’s it. Ferguson Haney. Fine to meet yeh.” Instead of shaking my hand, he squeezes my bicep. “Aye, now that’s how a lass should be.”
“Uh, hello, sir.”
“Not ‘sir,’ Miss—never sir! Your folks’ll have my hide. It’s Ferguson to you, Miss, nothing else.”
“Okay,” I say, “sorry.”
“No harm, no harm.”
His accent is Scottish, I think, and he looks a little like a bulldog: short, powerfully-built, with his gray hair squared off into a crew cut. If only he had an underbite, it would totally complete the look.
He sweeps his arm across the empty gym, a room as big as our auditorium at school. “Barely used, I don’t have to tell you. Don’t
