Swipe

the aisles. No murmuring or whispers or footsteps. Nothing.
    And then, from behind them, out from between the rows of shopping carts, Blake pounced, using one hand to pin Erin’s arms behind her back and wrapping the other tightly around her neck.
    “Let her go!” Logan yelled.
    “I’m not gonna hurt her,” Blake said. “She has nothing to do with us. She shouldn’t even be here.”
    “But I should,” Logan said.
    “Yes. You should. Logan, there’s a lot we need to talk about.”
    “Give us Dane and I’ll consider talking.”
    “Put down the smoke bomb and I’ll consider letting Erin go.”
    Somehow, the fact that Blake knew Erin’s name was enough to send Logan into a brand-new state of panic.
    “Please,” Logan whispered, and laughter erupted from the aisles all around him. Kid laughter. Crazy laughter.
    “We’re winning!” someone squealed. “Four points for Blake!”
    Shaking, Logan lay the smoke bomb on the ground.
    “Now I’m gonna tie Erin up,” Blake said calmly. “I’m not gonna hurt her—if she agrees not to struggle. I’m just gonna tie her up and let her dad come and get her. Okay, Erin?” he asked.
    Erin spat at his hand.
    “No deal,” Logan said, growing angry. “Let her go or nothing else happens. DOME’s on its way. I can wait here all night.”
    “We can make this happen faster,” Blake said, and as if on cue, Tyler and Eddie appeared, Tyler with a screwdriver and Eddie with an old saw.
    “You’re monsters,” Logan said.
    “No.” Blake shook his head. “Just desperate.”
    And right at that moment, smoke burst from the ground and filled the store with astonishing speed.
    “You little miser!” Blake cried.
    But Logan shook his head. “It wasn’t me,” he said honestly.
    Green laser points cut through the smoke.
    “Everybody freeze!” a man yelled, and DOME burst through the windows and into the Fulmart.
    10
    It all happened at once. Tyler and Eddie disappeared. Blake let Erin go. And Mr. Arbitor pinned Blake to the floor.
    Everyone was a shadow in the thick gray air.
    “Where’s Peck?” Mr. Arbitor demanded. “Where is he? Answer me right now !”
    “You can kill me,” Blake said. “But I won’t tell you.” He was limp and calm.
    “Do you have any idea what that boy has done?” Mr. Arbitor asked.
    Blake laughed at him. “Do you?”
    And suddenly, from out of a tent in the “outdoor adventure” section to the right, Meg Steward ran forward, growling and wild, lunging at Mr. Arbitor and leaping onto his back, pounding his head with a frying pan and a cooking pot she must have found in the kitchen aisle. She giggled madly as she hit him, and Mr. Arbitor yelled through each bang in head-swimming agony, swatting at her like some terrible fly, and releasing Blake in the process. Erin lay, stunned, on the ground. Logan stared in shock. The other agents were paralyzed by confusion and surprise.
    After several seconds of clanging, Meg dropped the cooking pot and took the frying pan in both hands like a bat. One swing was all it took; Mr. Arbitor slumped to the ground.
    The other agents ran in, but too late. Blake and Meg were gone, invisible in the smoke after just a few steps. Mr. Arbitor groaned and held his head, yelling, “What are you waiting for? Follow them!” But the Dust knew the store too well. Even in the fog, they navigated the aisles easily, outrunning DOME despite its agents’ high-tech gadgetry and heat-vision goggles. Somehow, the Dust had won, and DOME had lost.
    “Go, go!” Mr. Arbitor cried into the smoke. And the agents did even though it was clear that the kids would not be caught that night.
    Mr. Arbitor looked at Erin with disappointment, and at Logan with a seething hatred.
    “Come on, kids,” he said, swaying a little as he got to his feet. “Time to debrief.”

TEN

STREET CLEANING
    1
    L OGAN WAS SITTING, SLUMPED AND TIRED, IN a cold metal folding chair in the waiting room of the Department of Marked Emergencies Center next to the Umbrella, just across the street from the building he’d visit in November for his Pledge. If he wasn’t shipped off to jail first.
    Logan’s parents sat on either side of him, not saying a word. They rested like statues, Logan’s father leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, his eyes to the ground, his hands clasped together and contemplative, and Logan’s mother sitting straight up, with perfect posture, staring wide-eyed into nothing, hands resting idly on her lap. Neither