“It’s like you don’t know me at all,” I say with a careless grin even though my heart is thundering in my ears. Caught. I’m caught. As soon as he finds the contraband I’m dead, worse than dead—

Something moves in my peripheral vision. Pretty Boy is sauntering up behind Ginger. He taps the officer on the shoulder. Ginger turns, and Pretty Boy punches him in the face.

Ginger hits the ground like a sack of potatoes. I stare at Pretty Boy, startled—and, despite myself, a little bit impressed.

Pretty Boy turns to me. “In case it wasn’t obvious, that was the signal,” he states calmly. The older cop yells, having spotted his partner on the ground, and barrels toward us.

I turn and run.

The crowd is clamoring, confused. I dive into it again and use it for cover as I dart toward the storm drain. Pretty Boy is sprinting in the opposite direction, and the older cop is running after him. Ginger is hauling himself to his feet, his nose spurting blood down his freshly laundered shirt. “Elliott!” he yells after Pretty Boy, like it’s a curse word.

Elliott. My newest would-be customer. Who the cops apparently know by name—and who claims to have information that can reunite me with my big brother.

I pry the grate up in one smooth movement and slide down into the damp darkness. No one yells or points me out to the cops or tries to follow me. A clean getaway, at least till the next time I risk smuggling goods to a client.

Tonight. At the boardwalk, at sunset. I shouldn’t go. The risk is too high. Every time I make another deal, my name rises a little higher on the mayor’s list of suspects. Plus I haven’t had the chance to vet Elliott, don’t know anything about him beyond his name and that he has an impressive left hook.

But I hesitate anyway as I lower the grate back into place overhead, my hands lingering on the bars, my gaze caught by the view of the northeastern horizon. My brother, Ty, is about three thousand miles in that direction. Some days I can feel him like a lodestone pulling me out over the open sea. Those are the days I stand on the beach and stare squinting into the distance, trying to fool myself into believing I could see London if I just looked hard enough.

Today all I can see on the horizon are towering gray storm clouds. They look ominous, but not as ominous as the Shatter Ring—Earth’s new ring made up of huge, orbiting shards of reflective alien metal—gleaming above them.