We kick through weeds and past mounds of trash piled along the side of the house, almost to the roof. The woman must be a hoarder or something. Everything reeks of garbage and cat piss. Or at least I hope it’s cat piss.

Music blasts from an open garage door, like heavy metal but with a pop vibe to it. Inside, tables and desks that look like they were scavenged from different garage sales fill every open space. Each one is stacked high with electronic equipment and pieces of hardware I couldn’t even begin to guess at. Some of it looks futuristic; some looks like it’s from our time or even earlier.

A guy around our age with an unshaved face glances up from a toolbox, and the music switches off. He wears a blue T-shirt with the Superman logo, and his flexi has a green-and-yellow pattern that looks like a circuit board. He wipes his hands on his jeans and steps around his desk. “Looking for someone?”

“You Wombat?” Chris asks.

“That’s me.”

“Adam O’Neill sent us. He said you can get us some fake IDs.”

“Hmm.” Wombat checks us out, but when he sees Zoe his eyes widen. “Yeah, I might be able to help you out.”

Zoe shoots me a “What’s happening?” look and I shrug. He probably thinks she’s cute or something. Seems funny, since this guy probably isn’t even alive yet back in the present.

“I can do it, but five IDs…That won’t be cheap.”

“We got cash,” Chris says.

“Cash? Seriously?” The guy laughs. “How long you been hanging on to that?”

“About thirty years.”

“Thirty years?” Wombat keeps laughing, doubling over like this is the funniest thing he’s heard all day.

I should have known cash wouldn’t work here after the salespeople at Smartgear turned it down. We might have to use Future-Adam’s account one last time, but then the police might be able to trace us here.

Trent lights up a cigarette. “Whatever, will you take it or not?”

Wombat stops laughing and stares at Trent. “Whoa, is that a cigarette?”

Trent flicks his lighter back and forth. “Yeah, why?”

“Do you have more?”

Trent arches an eyebrow and brings the cigarette slowly to his mouth. “I might.”

“Whoa, okay, wow. Cigarettes.” Wombat rubs his scruffy dark beard. “I’ll do the IDs for a pack.”

Saved by Trent’s nasty habit. Who knew cigarettes would be worth more in thirty years than thousands of dollars in cash?

Trent pulls a new pack out of his backpack and tosses it to the guy. “Done.”

“Sweet. Step into my office and I’ll sort you out.”