12. Fox
FOX
It’s not weird at all. I’m fine. I mean, the whole thing is kind of my fault, anyway, because I just had to prove how good I am at stuff, which means I had to 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 think about, 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 not scary. 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. The worse it gets. It’s kind of hard to tell under my helmet, but it smells less like barbecue and more like just plain burning.
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 can feel it 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’t her—”
But Tink nods. My heart falls into my ass.
“Shit,” I mutter. “Poor kid.”
“Let me go!” The kid is fighting Pan, 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 the kind of neighborhood. Where people will call 911 for you but also stick around to watch and gossip. Where people know people’s business and know when 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!”
“And you’re gonna 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 freaking dummy? 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 the corner 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, run to 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.
The sweat that’s been coating my skin since we got here starts to drip down my back. The bars are skinny, kinda rusty, shoddy drill job into the wall. Maybe if I just—
I clamp each hand around a bar and pull.
Screech. The cage thing groans like it’s in pain, and my arms get so tense I’m probably pulling a muscle, but it collapses in, the bolts wrenching out of the wall.
I chuck it to the ground, tug on the window.
Again. Locked. I can kinda see in now, to what looks like a little girl’s room—blue bedspread, clothes on the floor, drawings on the wall like she’s Kit—just clogged with smoke.
And barking. I hear it now. Little and yippy and scared.
One more tug, the window doesn’t move, and I’m about to just punch the goddamn thing through when I realize I still have my helmet on.
I push back from the wall, give myself a good running start.
“Fox!” someone yells. Wendy, or—no, I think it’s Tink.
Too late. I headbutt the goddamn thing.
Glass thunders down on my helmet, and I stuff an arm through to undo the latch and shove it open, because no way am I fitting through just a hole, much less one made of broken glass. I fall headfirst, smoke swirling, into thousand-degree room.
The air’s too thick to breathe, too thick to see. Especially in my helmet. But I try.
Floor. Desk. Bed. Pillow—dog. Skinny curled-up thing, long snout and little triangle ears, trembling like a freaking leaf.
No time. I grab it—her—by the neck and tuck her under my arm like a football, then jump onto the bed, grab the top of the window frame, and swing out, feet-first, landing so hard a shock of pain shoots up my ankles and knees.
The air is hazy and thick. But I see them. And run.
“Get on!” Pan grabs the kid by the shoulders and plops her onto the bike, sliding into place in front of her and swinging a U-turn so fast she has no choice but to hold on. “Fox!”
“Behind you.” I stuff the dog down the front of my jacket, tug the zipper, and reach for Tink, but he’s—
He’s already got me. Holding tight.
“What are you waiting for?” he yells. “Go!”
Shit. Right.
I go.
Next thing I know, I’m on the 303 again, now with a skinny-ass dog zipped into my jacket.
I can’t hear anything. The road’s like white noise. Air, engine, my own loud breathing and pulse. The dog shaking against me.
And Tink.
Holding on very, very tight.
Holding me very tight.
I don’t know why I do it, why the impulse comes over me, but it’s like…
It’s like I can sense how he’s feeling. And damn, I don’t…
I don’t want him to feel that way.
And his hands are right there on my waist. Gripping hard.
So without even really thinking, I let go of one handle and just…squeeze it. His right hand. For reassurance, I guess. Not really safety.
Tink doesn’t react. Or maybe he does and I can’t see it. Too busy weaving through traffic, whipping between cars, scanning up ahead for danger, hazards, our next turn.
Maybe it’s just one of those things we’ll never speak of again. But…
But just in case, I squeeze his hand again.