“I take him,” Jiri said.

“Like hell you do,” the cop said casually as the tip of his metallic arm flared orange. And to the boy: “You’re going home now, kid.”

The boy didn’t flinch or say a word. Mistletoe idled her scoot. She felt light-headed. The bravado of men like Jiri and the cop made her nervous. Every day she tore through the streets of Little Saigon and witnessed all kinds of human ugliness. And her dream had told her that Jiri and his friends were killers. Or kidnappers. Or both. Deep inside, she believed it. She had a brief, jarring memory of wind howling in her ears, of being clutched to Jiri’s chest as he ran. Shooting, screaming, dying. And for what? She thought that maybe even the men themselves didn’t know. Maybe they did it for the act itself, for the sickening head rush, the ear-popping high before the crash.

Suddenly she saw a second cop’s head rise slowly over the top of the scrap heap, saw this cop raise her own metallic arm—disruptor, Mistletoe remembered—and aim at Jiri. With blank determination, Mistletoe kick-started the scoot over the top of the rusty pile. She heard herself yell something incomprehensible, a choked-back scream. The side of the scoot grazed the second cop’s head as she ducked, surprised, and fell. Jiri didn’t flinch, but the first cop blinked and turned toward the scrap heap. Jiri managed to squeeze off a quick pop-pop-pop before the cop’s arm flashed bright orange and Jiri’s skull and spine appeared briefly through transparent, cell-scrambled flesh. A second later he looked normal again. He swayed slightly and watched as the cop collapsed. Then he turned and caught Mistletoe’s shocked gaze as he sank to his knees.

Mistletoe felt bile rise in her throat. What had that disruptor done to Jiri? She watched in a stupor as he opened his mouth and raised his eyebrows pleadingly. Then the life went out of his eyes and he fell forward onto his face.

Her mind was blank but for one thought, distant and spare and clean: Aunt Dita is my protection now.

A series of meek coughs snapped her out of her daze. The well-dressed boy was kneeling among the three fallen adults. She pulled up beside him.

“Can you walk?”

He kept his eyes on the ground and managed a shrug.

“We can’t stay here,” she said. Jiri’s ancient weapon had been deafening. People would be along to investigate. Other cops, coming to find their fellow officers down. Not something she wanted to stick around and answer for.

“Get on,” Mistletoe said. This time the boy looked at Nelson, then at her for the first time. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. She read his face: that thing? The scoot was tiny, rusted, a hundred years old. Rich Boy probably never traveled in anything less fancy than one of those sleek articulated frame cars she watched through the holes in the canopy.

“Get on.” She grabbed for his shirtsleeve. Her hand passed through the projection of navy blue fabric and brushed the tight breathable material of his skinsuit. Ten feet away, the second cop began to stir. The boy swallowed once—she watched the lump in his throat move up and down—and jumped on the back of the scoot. Their combined weight strained the lifts, and Nelson protested with an angry whirrrr. The boy put his hands cautiously around Mistletoe’s stomach and sneezed as her thick, scented pigtail tickled his nose.