Page 9

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.”

* * *

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