The Improbable Theory of Ana and Zak by Brian Katcher Page A

minutes.
    My companion is stunned. “Ana, um, you don’t know how to play.”
    I sit back down, cross my legs, and smile. “Teach me everything you know. You have three hundred seconds.”
    The conference room where we’ll be competing is filled with portable tables. Dozens of competitors are wedged into chairs, and I get the feeling that not all of them are familiar with the concept of soap. I scan the area for my brother, but I don’t think he’s here.
    â€œExcuse me,” I ask a normal-looking middle-aged man. “Where are the people who competed last round?”
    â€œUm, I think they have the winners in a private waiting area until their next turn. Hey, nice bow, are you dressed like—”
    â€œNo.”
    Drat. Looks like I’m going to have to try to find Clayton the hard way. Once I’ve lost, then I’ll have Zak round up some space marines to raid the winners’ circle.
    Meanwhile, I have no choice but to fumble my way through this game. While I have been provided with a foil-wrapped package of Mazes and Monsters cards, Duquette tells me I won’t stand a chance. Players apparently spend years building their M-and-M decks. He claims he knows people who have spent over a thousand dollars on their cards, but what kind of loser would do that?
    â€œAna Watson! Did not expect to see you here!”
    I squint at my opponent. “Do I know you?”
    He leans forward. “It’s me, James. Zak’s friend. I didn’t know you were into gaming. How come you never joined us in the library?”
    â€œIt’s a recent interest.” I almost ask him why he’s dressed like President Theodore Roosevelt, but stop myself. He might tell me.
    â€œActually, James, I’m only here because I’m trying to track down my brother, Clayton. I’ve got to make it to the next round, and idiot Zak apparently was banned for cheating.”
    James looks surprisingly grim. “Not quite, Ana. Last year, he was one round away from being champion. Andhe threw the game.” His voice has the somber tone of a PSA on the dangers of meth.
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œWell, Duke denies it, but he lost on purpose so his opponent could impress his girlfriend.”
    I open my cards and pretend to shuffle them, trying to imagine a girl who’d be impressed by the champion of this game.
    Probably as unlikely as finding someone who’d be impressed by a quiz bowl champion.
    â€œGentlemen!” barks the cyborg referee. “And, um, lady.” He nods in my direction. “You all know the rules. You may begin at your leisure.”
    I try to remember what Zak told me. A troll beats a wizard, a wizard beats a gnome . . . a red card trumps an orange and so on down the visible light spectrum . . . spells are worth two . . . no, five . . .
    â€œJames? I don’t suppose you’d like to impress me ?” I bat my eyes.
    â€œSorry, Ana. At the game table, it’s all business.” He removes his wire-rimmed spectacles and replaces them with a large pair of mirrored sunglasses. He then fans his cards in front of him, inches from his nose.
    Mirrored sunglasses.
    I can totally see the reflection of his entire hand. All his cards.
    I swallow, shuffle my cards, and commit his hand to memory. “I open with a red . . . make that an orange troll. And I bid five hundred manna.”
    I gather my cards and my bow. James sits, dejectedly, unable to process how he lost to such a newbie. The worse the game went for him, the closer he held his cards to his face. I’d have to warn him about that. Later.
    â€œThanks, James. Sorry it didn’t go well for you.”
    He half smiles. “ C’est la guerre .”
    The winners’ room mirrors the original venue, only smaller. About twenty guys mill around, snacking, reading, and talking. One man strums a guitar. Clayton is not among them.
    This is no time for manners. “Has anyone seen