But Tink nods. My heart falls into my ass.
“Shit,” I mutter. “Poor kid.”
“Let me go!” The kid isfightingPan, kicking and twisting and I think trying to bite him even though he’s got her hard by the upper arm. “Let me go!”
“Are you nuts?” Pan says, helmet still on, mic live. “You can’t?—”
People are staring, I realize now. Neighbors, looking at the fire.
At us.
My neck prickles in a way that has nothing to do with heat.
‘Cause I know this neighborhood. Not Kensington in particular, never lived here, but thekindof neighborhood. Where people will call 911 for you but also stick around to watch and gossip. Where people know people’s business and knowwhen three bikers aren’t supposed to be there with the kid from down the block.
Shit.
“Please!” Wendy’s wailing, prying her skinny little fingers against Pan’s, and even from here I can see she’s got tears going down her cheeks. “Please! Nana is in there!”
“Andyou’regonna save her?” Pan snaps. Sounding serious for once. “No freaking chance.”
“Please!” she screams. “Please. She’s barking!”
Pan looks at Tink. Tink looks at Pan. I look at both of them.
“Barking?” I don’t realize I’m the one to say it until the word’s out of my mouth. “Nana’s a…dog?”
Wendy wheels on me. Best she can in Pan’s grip, anyway. “What are you, a freakingdummy? Yes, she’s a?—”
“Hey!” Tink cuts her off. “Watch it.”
He flicks a glance at me.
And I get this little…twinge feeling in my chest.
“Yeah, so, not sticking around here.” Pan stoops and picks up Wendy’s helmet, which he practically pushes into her chest. “Let’s?—”
“Where is she?” I interrupt.
Pan shuts up. Everyone does. I can hear a siren in the distance.
“Where is she?” I say again. “The dog, where?—”
“Fox.” Pan and Tink say it at the same time. But I just shrug Tink off and swing off my bike.
“Don’t!” Tink grabs for my arm, but I twist free like it’s nothing. His hands are, like, tiny, really.
And shaking.
I have to brush that off. “Where is she?” I ask the kid now for the third time. “Where?—”
“M-my room,” Wendy gulps. “It’s—it’s—that one.” She points, not like I can tell where she’s pointing. “Around thecorner on the left. I mean right! Right.” She shakes her head. “By the palm tr?—”
I don’t wait for her to finish. I jog,runto the side of the house, her bedroom side and the side where there aren’t as many flames, thank God. I skid to a stop in the pebbles, a foot or so from the window, try to figure out what I’m going to do.
And shit, the damn thing has bars on it. Of course it does.
The siren picks up a little.
