RUSKJER BEAMED AT his three sons as they rode the elevator to the top of the needle. Macau looked tiny in all directions. Stepping gingerly onto the glass floor, Ruskjer’s knees buckled, just like before, four years ago. Each of his sons walked across the glass as if it was paved sidewalk.

     Ruskjer watched as they each suited up to bungee jump off the edge of the needle.

     One by one they disappeared. Ruskjer watched through the glass floor as they each screamed like little girls all the way down and halfway back again.

     As he stepped off the elevator after riding back down, he was accosted by three hooded thugs. Before any of them laid a hand on him, they each collapsed with feathered darts sticking in their backs.

     A man in a suit pointed his dart gun barrel down as he approached.

     “Who are you? And who are they?” Ruskjer asked, as a small crowd gathered.

     “Secret Service,” the man said, as he whipped out his ID. “I have no idea who these guys are. The president told me to look out for you, so that’s what I’m doing.”