Maxwell Trafton
had known Kazuo Tanaka since their first day of third grade, and that
meeting—which had ended in a detention for the both of them—had shaped the way
their relationship built itself up until now, almost two decades later.
“Fitting,”
Max thought idly, not consciously aware of the fact that he was talking out
loud, “since we’re about to commit a felony.”
“Whazzat?”
The
voice came suddenly from the passenger’s side of Max’s used—but still
functional, damn it—Corolla. It was
Kazuo, with his blue-streaked hair and his eyeliner, and those freaking chains.
Max
jumped, bit through the tip of his tongue, and nearly slammed his head against
the overhead light. “Gah—Jesus, Kaz!
Don’t do that!”
Kazuo
grinned, so that every one of his spit-shining teeth were visible; he looked
like a shark. “Too jumpy, that’s your problem. Oughtta get more sleep, Maxie.” He
slid into the car and tossed a Red Bull into Max’s lap. “I’m a bad influence.
You shouldn’t listen to me."
Max
sighed, shook his head in a futile attempt to clear it, and popped the tab on
his prize. He drank, then sighed again. “What am I doing, man?”
“Fox
News would say you’re plotting a murder. Prob’ly all them vidja-games.”
Max
rolled his eyes. “Thanks. I feel much better about myself now.”
Kazuo
patted his friend’s shoulder. “Then my work is done.”
