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6

The next morning—Monday, but then it was summer vacation, so the day didn’t exactly matter—he stepped out of his house, shouting at Mom that he was heading out to meet up with Gibby. She called back, reminding him to text her if Gibby didn’t show for some reason. She’d wanted to come with, but she’d relented when he promised her that he’d only be on his own for a few blocks in broad daylight. Gibby had already texted him that she was waiting at the Franklin Street station entrance.

He moved lethargically, swallowing down a yawn. Yesterday had been intense, Mom working him hard. They’d started small, with empty plastic cups. He’d been able to lift them with ease, still in awe that he could do such a thing. He’d moved them back and forth before spinning them in concentric circles. He’d managed to get up to ten at one time before they started to wobble.

Dad had been their victim (his word) for what came next. Sweat dripped from Nick’s forehead as he’d lifted his father a few feet above the ground carefully, not wanting to hurt him. Dad had looked a little green as Nick bobbed him up and down, head almost bumping up against the ceiling.

“Good,” Mom had said, watching from a few feet away. “It’s all about control, Nick. Focus. No distractions.” She’d circled behind him and clapped her hand hard right near his ear. Dad dropped a couple of feet, but Nick managed to catch him before he could hit the floor.

And on and on it went.

He knew this work was important, but he was relieved to get out of the house. It felt like he could breathe a bit better, even if the oppressive heat settled over him like a wet blanket. When he reached the sidewalk, he glanced back at the house. Mom stood in front of her bedroom window, watching him. He waved. Maybe she wasn’t looking at him because she didn’t wave back.

He left the house behind, moving down the familiar sidewalks, his backpack heavy with his Guardian costume, something his parents had at first kept locked up, same as his pills. They’d given it to him the night before, telling him that part of being prepared was having it near, just in case.

(If he’d slept with the costume in his bed, hugging the helmet… well, that was no one’s business but his.)

The humidity was terrible, with the promise of worse in the hours to come. Wavy lines rose from the blacktop of the streets. People passed him by, most looking sluggish, wiping their brows. Some glanced at him, nodded in greeting, but no one tried to stop him. He ducked his head, not wanting to take the chance he’d be recognized. It didn’t happen very often—at least not as much as it had even weeks before—but he couldn’t be too careful. Some idiots out there probably thought they could still strike it rich with the bounty Burke had put out on Seth. He’d recanted in an interview with the worst person in the world, and had apologized, but Nick didn’t trust him in the slightest. It rubbed him the wrong way that Mom seemed to think the only way to get to Owen was to protect Burke. After everything Burke had done, Nick almost wanted to let Owen at him, if that’s what he was planning to do.

But being a hero didn’t mean getting to pick and choose who to save. That was something the police seemed to do, and Nick wanted to be better than that. Better thanthem,even if it meant having to help an asshole like Simon Burke. Two birds, one stone.

He spotted Gibby at the entrance to the Franklin Street station, leaning up against the railing near the stairs that led downto the subway. She didn’t see him, her phone pressed against her ear. She wasn’t smiling. Nick hurried toward her.

She must have seen him out of the corner of her eye, because she nodded at him, speaking quickly into the phone before hanging it up and shoving it into the pocket of her black Dickies shorts, her silver wallet chain jangling. Her green tank top was low-cut, a black sports bra underneath.

“Hey,” she said with a frown. “Why are you jogging? I thought you hated anything that wasn’t walking.”

“Or flying,” Nick said. “But seeing as how I still haven’t gotten the hang of that, I have to use my legs. Good thing they’re sexy. At least, that’s what Seth says. Apparently, he likes pasty white sticks covered in hair.”

“No accounting for taste, I guess.”

“Who were you talking to?”

“Jazz,” she said. “She’s with Seth at the secret lair. They were going to see if they could hack into CCTV cameras to try and find out if they could catch a glimpse of Owen. They’ll meet up with us later.”

“Our lives are so damn cool,” Nick breathed. “Sayhack into CCTV camerasagain, only slower this time.”

“Yeah, I’m not going to do that. You good?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I don’t know, Nick,” Gibby said, as ifhewere the idiot. “This weekend was… a lot.”

“Still a fan of hyperbole, I see.”

She snorted. “You’re lucky I love you because you’re kind of a dick.”

“Yeah, yeah. You wouldn’t have me any other way. I’m… good.” And he thought he meant it. Mostly. “You know, for someone who people want to murder.”

“Our lives are too close to those dumb comic books you read.”

He blinked. “What do you mean?” He startled when someone asked at him to move out of the way. He apologized as he stepped away from the front of the station stairs. The man nodded his thanks and descended.

“Former enemies coming back out of the blue for revenge like this is some self-serious sequel,” Gibby said as she grabbed Nick by the arm, pulling him down the sidewalk. Her hand was hot—too hot—and Nick pulled his arm free. She didn’t stop, and he had no choice but to follow her. “Doesn’t that happen all the time in comics?”

She had a point. “Makes you think.”

“About?”