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open it, and yell at him to shut the hell up.
    I wish the rest of the neighborhood would yell at him, too. But no one’s saying anything. I figure they’re either too dead or too scared. We’re all bugs on a sidewalk, waiting for the boot to fall. But when that finally happens, one thing is for sure.
    I’ll be wearing clean underwear.

DAY 3: LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA

    Soup and a Sandwich
     
    A man is trying to break into the trunk of the blue sedan next to ours. I think he’s a looter because the owner got zapped on the first day. I watch from the shadows of the backseat as he leans into a tool I can’t see. It scrapes against metal. I haven’t seen him before. He’s short and round with thin, curly hair and wire-rimmed glasses that keep sliding down his nose. He looks around, pushes up his glasses, leans again. The tool slips. He swears under his breath. I bet he’s never broken into anything other than a refrigerator.
    The green door opens. Two men head straight for him, walking fast. One I recognize right away. He’s wearing the same Hooters sweatshirt he had on when he tossed Speed-Bump Guy into the street. The hood shades half his face, making the one eye I can see look small and dark.The other man is huge, like a bear, with a thick black beard and long black hair tied in a ponytail. He’s a few steps behind Hoodie, his face unreadable behind all that hair, but his eyes are steady on the smaller man in front of him. Of the two, I think Hoodie is the man to watch.
    Hoodie yells, “Hey, my friend! You heard the orders—no one allowed in the Forbidden Zone.”
    Round Guy jumps at the noise. He sees them, stands up, and says, “But … but this is my car.”
    Hoodie walks up to him. “So you’re bustin’ into your own trunk?”
    Round Guy says, “It’s my car. You have no right—”
    Hoodie says to Black Beard, “You think this is his car?”
    Black Beard says, “Nope.” His voice is soft but very deep. More like a rumble from the bottom of his chest.
    Hoodie says, “It’s a
con
-sensus, then. You look more like a BMW man. No way your ride’s a piece-a-crap rental like this.”
    Round Guy looks at one, then the other. He wipes sweat from his forehead, slides his glasses up.
    Hoodie says, “This your car then where’s the keys?”
    Round Guy says, “My, uh, my wife lost them.”
    Hoodie, smiling, says, “That a fact? Your wife? In all the chaos and pan-de-monium?”
    Round Guy nods. But it’s a careful nod, like he’s not sure whether to agree or not.
    Hoodie says to Black Beard, “You believe him?”
    Black Beard says, “Nope.”
    Hoodie is focused on Round Guy, but Black Beard isscanning the lot. His eyes settle on this car. I freeze, hoping the shadows make me invisible. He lingers a moment, then moves on.
    Hoodie says to Round Guy, “Here’s the deal, my friend. You describe the
con
-tents of this trunk. Then we’ll open it. If you’re right, all we got is the problem of you being where you’re not supposed to be. No one gets hurt—at least not
much
. On the other hand …”
    There’s a soft click. It reminds me of Zack snapping a chicken bone. The curved steel of a switchblade appears in Hoodie’s right hand. He spins it twice on his finger like an old-time gunslinger. Then he does some tricky thing where the blade weaves between his fingers, almost like it’s alive. After a few seconds he stops, examines the tip, uses it to dig at a fingernail. Black Beard isn’t looking around anymore. His attention is on Hoodie, dark eyes glued to that blade.
    Round Guy’s glistening face is the color of bread dough.
    Hoodie says, “On the other hand, if you can’t describe the
con-
tents of this trunk, which I believe to be the case, well then …”
    Hoodie flicks his wrist and the blade disappears. He holds his hands out like a magician who just made a rabbit disappear, smiles slow, and says, “Then we got us a bona fide
sit
-u-ation.”
    Round Guy gulps like a beached whale.