Dink saw how Wiggin walked with his food tray and knew something was wrong. And it wasn’t just because his tray was double-loaded. Who was he getting lunch for? Didn’t matter—what mattered was that Wiggin was in pain. Dink pulled out the chair beside him.

“What happened?” he asked as soon as Wiggin sat down.

“Got lunch for Zeck,” said Wiggin.

“I mean what happened to you,” said Dink.

“Happened?” Wiggin’s voice was all innocence, but his eyes, lasering in at Dink’s eyes, were telling him to back off.

“Suit yourself,” said Dink. “Keep your dandruff to yourself for all I care.”

The conversation at the table flowed around them after that. Dink joined in now and then, but he noticed that Wiggin just ate, and that he was careful about how he breathed. Something had injured his chest. Broken rib? No, more likely a bruise. And he’d been favoring one leg when he walked. Trying not to show it, but favoring it all the same. And he was saving lunch for Zeck. They’d had a fight. The pacifist and the genius? Fighting each other? That was stupid. But what else could it have been? Who else but a pacifist would attack somebody as little as Wiggin?

Half the soldiers were gone from the table by the time Zeck came in. The food line had already closed down, but Wiggin saw him and stood up and waved him over. He was slow raising his hand to wave, though, what with his chest hurting and all.

Zeck approached. “Got lunch for you,” said Wiggin, stepping away from his chair so that Zeck could sit in it.

The other kids at the table were obviously poising themselves to leave if Zeck sat down there.

“No, I’m not hungry,” said Zeck.

Had he been crying? No. And what was with his hand? He kept it in a fist, but Dink could see that it had been injured. That there had been blood.

“I just wanted to give you something,” said Zeck.

He laid a stocking down on the table beside Wiggin’s tray.

“Sorry it’s wet,” said Zeck. “I had to wash it.”

“Toguro,” said Wiggin. “Now sit and eat.” He almost pushed Zeck down into the chair.

It was the stocking that did it. Wiggin had given Zeck a gift—a Santa Claus gift, of all things—and Zeck had accepted it. Now Wiggin stood with his hands on Zeck’s shoulders, staring at each of the other Rat Army soldiers in turn, as if he was daring them to stand up and go.

Dink knew that if he got up, the others would too. But he didn’t get up, and the others stayed.

“So I’ve got this poem,” said Dink. “It really sucks, but sometimes you just gotta say it to get it out of your system.”

“We’ve just eaten, Dink,” said Flip. “Couldn’t you wait till our food is digested?”

“No, this will be good for you,” said Dink. “Your food’s turning to shit right now, and this will help.”

That got him a laugh, which bought him enough time to finish coming up with the rhymes he needed.

As poems go, it was pretty weak. But as a symbol of Dink’s decision that Zeck should be given another chance, well, it did the job. Between Wiggin’s stocking and Dink’s poem, Zeck had returned to his previous status: barely tolerated.

Dink looked up at Wiggin, who was still standing behind Zeck—who now seemed to be eating with some appetite.

“Merry Christmas,” Dink mouthed silently.

Wiggin smiled.