“O…kay then.” Fox rubs his chin. “So, wait. Pan won’t go alone, and Tink doesn’t have a bike, and Idohave a bike. Which means…” He frowns. “What are we doing, exactly?”
CHAPTER 12
FOX
Next thing I know,I’m cruising down the 303 with Tink wrapped around me.
It’s not weird at all. I’m fine. I mean, the whole thing is kind of my fault, anyway, because I justhadto prove how good I am at stuff, which means Ihadto go open up his bike, which means?—
“Watch out!”
Tink’s grip on me tightens, and I wobble.
“Shit,” I whisper. “Sorry.” I nearly clipped Pan’s rear wheel. Good thing Tink was watching, I guess. If he can even see over my shoulder.
“Be careful, you idiots,” comes Pan’s voice in my ear from up ahead. “Last thing I need is one of you roadrashed to hell.”
“Sorry,” I mutter again. I glance at Pan, who’s up ahead, the girl—Wendy—clinging onto him for dear life. If she was afraid to get on the bike again, she didn’t show it, which is kind of badass.
Traffic’s not bad, ‘cause it’s only early afternoon, and no one needs to be out but, like, old people. Or guys on bikes with nothing better to do.
Usually, riding’s like my thinking time. Not that I really have much to thinkabout,but just a chance to…I dunno, get in the zone, or something. Alone time.
Except now I’m not alone. Tink’s here. Holding on. Holding steady.
It’s not bad, though.
Soon enough, we’re firing down the off-ramp, to where all the streets are cracked to shit and the houses are all the same little box shape. And I know most people say Kensington’s just as bad as the Strip, but right now, riding past all the rows of neighborhood, it doesn’t look so bad. Run-down, for sure, but notscary.I can even hear what I think is an ice cream truck. And someone’s cooking out, judging by the smoky smell in the air.
Except that the more I follow Pan down the streets, the stronger the smell gets. Theworseit gets. It’s kind of hard to tell under my helmet, but it smells less like barbecue and more like just plainburning.
I wonder for a sec if I’m having a stroke. Isn’t that a sign of brain damage, smelling burning when nothing’s burning? Maybe I’m imagining it. No way to know, I guess. Or. No. Wait.
“Hey,” I yell-ask over my shoulder. “Tink. You smell that?”
I feel Tink shift a little. “Maybe?” He pauses. “Is that…”
“Yeah,” I answer. “Fire.”
Okay. So no brain damage. And it does make sense. This happens sometimes, out here. Wildfire. It’s dry. It’s hot. Stuff catches. Usually the burns don’t make it all the way into the Strip, dying out somewhere in the scrubby forests on the outskirts of town, so I’ve never seen one up close. But you can smell it, if the winds are strong enough.
Ahead of us, Pan blows through a stop sign and scoots around the corner. I zoom up after him to catch up, but just as quickly, he stops. Hard. So hard I almost rear-end him but skid on the brakes just in time.
“What the f—” Tink, from behind me, tries to jump off the bike, but I throw an arm out, instinct, pin him back.
‘Cause this is no wildfire.
It looks fake. Like a movie. Big white-orange flames that fan out the windows of this one boxy little Kensington house, black scorch marks on the stucco, complete with crackling and snapping in the air like a soundtrack. But then the wind shifts and suddenly you canfeelit as much as see it. The heat blasts over the front of my body like a sunburn.
A house is on fire, my brain finally realizes. And someone’s screaming.
“No!” It’s her. The kid. “No!”
All of a sudden she’s chucking off her helmet, throwing herself off of Pan’s bike, only for him to barely grab her by the neck of her T-shirt and yank her back.
Something clicks. Shit. I swivel to Tink.
“That isn’ther?—”
