The gate was guarded, as always, by a couple of twelve-year-old kids in 
red neckerchiefs and armbands, ancient bolt-action rifles with real bayonets 
leaning against their collarbones. A blond white girl and a pudgy Asian boy. 
Bud
and his son Harv had whiled away many an idle hour trying to get these kids to 
laugh: making silly faces, mooning them, telling jokes. Nothing ever worked. 
But he'd seen the ritual: They'd bar his path with crossed rifles and not let 
him in until he swore his undying allegiance to Mao-Gonzalo-thought, and 
then—