“Told you he’d rabbit,” mutters the younger officer to his partner. They’re a bit closer now, near enough for me to hear the viciousness in his voice. He wants me to run. He wants to be the one to catch me. I glance at him again, a little longer this time, taking his measure. He’s maybe twenty-five, with a curly mop of bright ginger hair and bright green eyes that are much more expressive than he probably wants them to be. I bet he’s the type who would’ve worn mirrored sunglasses to hide his fear back before they outlawed glasses.

It’s not a good thing, him being afraid of me. Scared is dangerous. Scared makes mistakes, and mistakes get people killed.

My mind skitters back to my potentially unlocked loft. The key is in my pocket, I remember. If I was still using the same system as I used to have a while back (left pocket for keys to doors that were currently locked, right for ones that were unlocked), I’d be more sure that I hadn’t accidentally left my home wide open and vulnerable. But I abandoned that key system over a year ago. And, I force myself to remember, it never really worked in the first place anyway.

“Easy,” says the older cop to his partner. I can see sweat beading on his umber skin from here, but he doesn’t move to wipe it away, keeping his gaze on me. At his side, Ginger is practically vibrating with the need to give chase.

I reach the back of the crowd and start weaving between the people. I breathe shallowly. I’ll never get used to this smell: unwashed bodies and barely contained terror. It’s everywhere on this godforsaken island, ever since the aliens knocked out our power—and therefore the town’s desalination plant—last year during the Fracture. No one except the mayor and her lackeys can afford to waste precious fresh water on a shower now, and no one goes to the beaches unless they have to.

When I reach the middle of the crowd, I glance around, trying to map out an escape. Banyan trees line either side of the street here. Their knotty limbs spread overhead, twisting together in a canopy that looks like a thousand interlocking fingers, while thick prop roots dangle down and burrow into the ground. If you look hard at some of the trunks, you can still spot the original tree that’s been long since starved by the banyans that planted themselves in their crevices. This street used to be a big tourist attraction because of these trees, or so I’ve heard.

The locals call them strangler figs, my brother told me when we first moved here last summer. I can see why the tourists like them so much. Either way, they’re an invasive species.