Dayne realized that she was tired. "That sounds great." She flopped onto the couch and grabbed the remote, and flipped the TV on. Paige dropped onto the seat beside her.
News. Saturday afternoon news?
Dayne flipped the channel.
News.
An I Love Lucy rerun.
PowerLizards, or some such cartoon dreck.
News.
News.
News.
"What the hell—" Paige muttered.
"I don't know." Dayne kept flipping channels. It was two in the afternoon, and CNN should have been the only place with news. "The Charlotte games are usually on Channel 13, but . . ." She saw something football-like flash onto the screen, then off again. She backed up a channel. "Never mind. Here it is."
The Duke Blue Devils and the UNC Tarheels were on the field, and the Tarheel quarterback threw a beautiful long bomb down the field. His wide receiver ran a terrific pattern, was in the right spot to pick up the pass, was as clear as a Carolina afternoon . . .
And some huge guy in an obscene bright-red devil suit, with a pitchfork, no less, appeared literally out of nowhere and speared the football out of mid-air. With the deflated pigskin skewered on his pitchfork, he ran straight through the oncoming Tarheels, blasted his way through the Blue Devils, charged alone up the field into the Blue Devil end zone, and did a victory dance that involved gestures someone managed to cover with strategically e