“Do not touch my bag!” she said, way louder and more intense than was necessary.

“Not touching a thing,” he said. “Relax.”

“I’m not going to relax! Back off!”

“What, is it going to blow up or something?” he asked, with a chuckle.

Kenzie strode forward, through the group, “Step back and leave my stuff alone!”

“I didn’t touch anything. Really.”

“Kenzie,” Sveta said. “He didn’t touch anything.”

“And stop saying my stuff is going to blow up!” Kenzie said, volume still raised. She shot Chris a look and smiled. “Pretty please? It’s really not funny.”

“That was my fault,” I said. “I brought it up first. I’ve dealt with tinkers and hyperdimensional tech makes me nervous.”

“You’re fine,” Kenzie said. “You’ve been cool. I like you. I have more mixed feelings about Chris. And I have very strong feelings about things like my bag being messed with.”

Chris threw his hands up, retreated to the chair that Tristan had initially brought to the edge of where everyone was standing, and kicked at the ground, wheeling himself back to his corner.

I met Sveta’s eyes. We communicated more or less telepathically: more supervision would be needed.

Kenzie was now rummaging, gathering her stuff and getting it organized. She had what looked like a gym bag, white with pink piping as trim, and big plastic zipper tabs. She put stuff in it and then picked it up.

“Want to have a chat, Kenz?” I asked.

She drew in a deep breath and sighed heavily, bag held close. “Fine.”

“It’s not obligatory,” I said.

“It’s fine. Yes. Chat. You’re cool. Some people aren’t.”

“Referring to yourself?” Chris asked.

“Not helping, Chris,” Tristan called out.

I led Kenzie out the side door, to the fire escape that was the access to the mostly unfurnished apartment. The air outside was far warmer than the air inside. It was late in the afternoon.

“Sorry,” Kenzie said. She put her bag down on one corner of the fire escape, then leaned against the railing, looking down as she wound her foot around the strap.

“It’s okay,” I said.

“I’m really glad you’re here,” she said. “And I kind of like that you don’t know all the bad stuff.”

“You’re worried about what Houndstooth is going to say?”

“I don’t like being embarrassed,” she said. “And it’s really, really embarrassing.”

I didn’t like standing over her, so I walked over to where the stairs met the little platform of rusty slats and sat down sideways with my back to the exterior wall of the building. Not facing her directly, but I could comfortably look her way.