“You stay out front, nail him if he takes a runner.”

No mention of me. I’d been invisible on the back of the bike?

Then it was déjà vu. Engines revving up the ramps, echoing crazily off the concrete. Noise enough to cover the clink of the key in the lock. It turned, and the door gave silently. Thanking the poor dead dude who’d kept his lock clean and his hinges well oiled, I nudged Dark Boy inside and eased the door shut.

A flash of light behind me, a narrow beam on the door. Dark Boy with an LED penlight. Something else to covet. But I swatted it down. “What are you doing?”

“Looking.”

“How ’bout them seeing?” Still bright enough out there so light wouldn’t show under the door. But this was my hide and I was calling the shots for a change.

The light vanished. An obedient cuss, when he saw the sense of it.

I felt for the rods and barred the door. We stood in the dark, catching our breath, listening as the trikes rumbled up the ramps, around the second level, third, then down again, regrouping in the street.

“Nothing up there but old wrecks.”

“Told ya. Lost him again.”

“Slippery mothafucka.”

“Kid’s got speed. Trade mine for his any day.”

“It’s mine when we nab him.”

“Who says?”

Dark Boy shook with silent guffaws. Soon we heard them splitting up the search party and motoring off in different directions.

“Idiots,” he sneered.

“Shh! Might’ve left one behind.”

“I counted the start-ups.”

“Better be right.”

“I am!” Pride-stung I’d doubted his call.

“Okay, then.” I felt past him in the darkness to slide the blackout drape aside a few inches. Fading daylight revealed the room in shades of gray and lavender. “Why’re they so fired up after you?”

“ ’Cause I give ’em trouble every chance I get.”

He nosed around, taking in every detail: the couch with its bedding, the table and chairs, the useless microwave, the neatly shelved provisions. He opened the lockers, ran a finger along the shelves.

“Make yourself at home,” I muttered. His poking about made the space feel smaller.

He tried the dry faucets in the sink, riffled the old magazines, then crossed his arms like it hurt to say it. “Fine hide, den rat.”

“Name’s Glimmer.” My water bottle had battered me all through the ride. I unslung it and set it beside the hot plate. Silence from the other end. “And yours is . . . Julian, right?”

He was not pleased that I remembered. Like having an actual, human name might tarnish his cool. He made a big deal of peering out the window, leaning over, arms wrapped around his chest.

“You got some other handle you go by?”

“Like you den rats, you mean? What the fuck kind of name is Glimmer, anyway?”