Emmet kept his head down as he limped through the press of adolescent bodies clogging the corridors of Hackensack High. His book bag, both straps broken, gripped firmly in front of him with both arms. He made it to his locker as the second bell rang and quickly exchanged his Math and English books for Geography and Science. The hallway emptied and by the time he swung his locker shut he was alone in the hall. Fine by him. Except now he was late. Again.

Striding as fast as he could with his sore leg, he rounded the corner and pushed open the door to his classroom.

“You’re late, Mr. Shelby,” Brock said.

“Yes, s-s-sir. Sssssorry, sir,” Emmet replied.

Brock looked a little closer at Emmet and frowned, but only said, “Have a seat, Mr. Shelby. We’re on page 93.”

Emmet hugged his backpack tighter and shuffled towards the back of the class where he flopped into the last available seat. The girl beside him shot him a dark look and inched her chair away. Emmet tried to cover his blush by busying himself with his books. Not that it mattered. No one was looking at him.

Forty-five excruciating minutes later, the bell rang again. Emmet stuffed his books back into his bag and sidled towards the door. He made it as far as the second row of desks.

“Mr. Shelby, a word.”

Emmet sighed and turned back towards Brock. The class emptied and soon only the two of them remained. Brock stood, crossed the room and shut the door.

“What happened to your face?” he asked when he turned around again.  

Emmet shrugged.  

Brock sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose with one thumb. “Emmet, if you’re being bullied-”

“N-n-no, sir,” Emmet lied.

Brock’s raised brow told him he wasn’t buying it. He didn’t press the issue though.

“Alright, suit yourself,” he said instead, “but try not to be late tomorrow.  There’s only so many times I can let it go before I have to give you detention.”

“Y-yes, Sir,” Emmet replied.  

Emmet turned to leave, but stopped, one hand on the door knob, when Brock called out to him.

“Have you seen Vanessa this week?”

Emmet shook his head. “N-not since we g-got back.”

Brock’s lips thinned and he opened his mouth, but whatever he was about to say got cut off by the sound of his phone.

Taking it from his pocket,  Brock swiped it open and sighed.

“Got any plans after school?” he asked.

“N-no,” Emmet replied. “Why?”

“Looks like we got a rift near the New York State line.”

***

“Hey,” Ian said, as Emmet slid into the backseat.

“H-hey,” Emmet replied, hauling his kit over his lap and onto the seat beside him.

“Ready for some fun?”

“D-depends. Are y-you g-g-going to blow stuff u-up ag-gain?”

“Kid,” Ian said, reversing the car out of Emmet‘s driveway, “I will always blow stuff up. Every chance I get.”

Emmet smiled. “C-cool. Where’s B-brock?”

“He’s meeting us at Fort Lee.”

Ian’s eyes flicked up to the rearview mirror, then back to the road.

“What happened to your face?”

Emmet could feel the heat rise to his cheeks. “N-n-nothing.”

Ian snorted. “If you’re going to lie, at least pick a good one. ‘I fell’, or ‘I walked into a door’ at least gives the pretense of possibility.”

Emmet couldn’t think of a good response to that, so he kept his mouth shut.

“Or stick with what you know, I guess. Here,” Ian said, flipping open the middle console and tossing him a packet of tissues. “Your lip is oozing from all that nothing.”

“T-thanks,” Emmet said, catching the package.

He pulled out a tissue and held it to his lip.

They drove in silence for awhile before Ian said, “Listen, kid, I get it. I used to get the stuffing beat out of me in high school too, but-maybe learn to fight back a bit better.”

“D-did you?”

“Eventually. When I got tired of running.”

Emmet didn’t answer and after a moment Ian flipped on his music. They rode the rest of the way to Fort Lee with the sounds of Skrillex blasting through the car.

***

Pulling in to the parking lot near Fort Lee Park, Emmet barely had his seatbelt off when Brock opened the front passenger’s side and got in.

He made a noise and flipped off Ian’s music.

“What is it with you and that garbage?” he asked.

“It’s better than your 'my life is so sad’ music.”

“It’s called Country, jerk.”

“Whatever. What’s the story. Did you pick anything up?”

Brock sighed. “Nothing nearby, but it’s pointing us to the bridge.”

Ian groaned. “It’s peak hour, Brock. It will take us at least an hour to cross that thing.”

“We could always walk it,” Brock suggested.

Ian made a disgusted noise in the back of his throat and threw the car into reverse to back out of the parking spot.

Emmet hastily buckled his seatbelt. Ian’s driving left little things like ‘Road Safety’ and ‘Legal Limits’ somewhat out of the equation.

“Could you slow down, please,” Brock said. “It doesn’t matter how fast you drive there, you will still hit traffic. You’ll just hit it sooner.”

“If you don’t like my driving, you can get out.”

Then he reached forward and flipped on his music, drowning out any response Brock might have had.

***

It took them 40 minutes to cross the bridge.

Now and then, Brock would pull out his phone, frown at it, then tuck it back into his pocket.

He turned down the music as Ian slid into the W 178 exit.

“If we find anything on this side of the state line-” Brock started.

“I know,” Ian said, cutting him off. “Are you sure you’re reading it right  though? Here, let me see it.”

“No,” Brock protested, holding his phone away from Ian. “Would you just concentrate on driving? You’re already anxiety inducing enough as it is.”

Ian clicked his tongue. “You’re worse than Mom.”

“Mom won’t even get in the car with you. Turn right on Pinehurst.”

“I hate New York,” Ian grumbled as he angled the car through a narrow street lined on both sides with cars.

“Right again onto W 177th,” Brock said.

They drove in a tense silence, broken only by the occasional muttering from Ian.

“Left on Haven.”

“Are you sure-” Ian started.

“Shut up, yes,” Brock replied. “Oh, it’s in there!”

He pointed to a park on their left, barely taking his eyes off his phone. “Turn up here.”

Ian made to turn, then hastily corrected his course to keep going straight. He swore under his breath.

“What are you doing?” Brock demanded. “We had to go that way!”

“It’s a one way, Brock,” Ian snapped back. “Because everything in New York is an ever loving one way.”

“Okay, relax. Keep going straight. I think we can take W 172 down to Fort Washington.”

Ian said something then that made Emmet think it was probably a good idea Ian’s mother never got in the car with him.

By the time they pulled up to J. Hood Wright Park, Emmet had garnered a rather more extensive vocabulary than he had begun this trip with.

Exiting the car, Emmet winced as he stretched out his battered leg. He thought he must have one killer bruise on his knee, but he didn’t want to roll up his pant leg to check with Ian and Brock and standing right there.

“Balinski!” someone called out. “You forget which way Jersey is?”

Brock sighed and Ian swore, slamming his door shut.

“Easy,” Brock muttered under his breath. Out loud, he said, “Foster! Been awhile.”

“Not nearly long enough,” came the reply.

Dressed in varying shades of grey, with a shirt and jacket clearly tailored to his thin frame, Foster looked out of place in the middle of Washington Heights.

Smiling with only half his mouth, he strode towards them, his fancy dress shoes tapping against the concrete of the sidewalk. A cool fall breeze blew, but it barely ruffled his dark, well gelled hair.

“Pretty sure the state line is that way,” he said, thrusting his thumb over his shoulder.

“We were already halfway here by the time we realized it wasn’t in Jersey,” Brock responded. “Figured we might as well take a peek.”

Foster arched a brow. “Well, you came. You saw. Now—”

“Foster!” a gruff voice interrupted.

Foster closed his mouth and audibly inhaled before answering, “I’m over here, Frank.”

Ian shifted his feet, but Brock stilled him with a glance.

“Well, well. Look who it is,” an older, bluff faced man said as he approached.

Brock smiled a small smile. “Frank.”

He held his hand out and Frank grasped it, griping hard.

“Balinski! So good to see you again,” Frank said, still shaking Brock’s hand. “What brings you to New York?”

“What else?” Brock replied.

Frank laughed and released Brock’s hand. “Wrong side of the state line aren’t you?”

Brock dropped his hand to his side, out of view of the two men before them, and flexed it surreptitiously.

“Well, you know me,” Brock said with a forced laugh, “never could resist New York in the fall.”

Ian snorted, but Frank either didn’t hear him, or ignored him.

“Well I hate to tell you you came all this way for nothing then,” Frank said.

“What do you mean nothing?” Ian demanded. “We got a read on a—”

He glanced at a group of pedestrians passing nearby by and lowered his voice.

“We got a read on a rift,” he finished, holding up his phone. “Same as you must have.”

Frank eyed Ian’s phone. “You’re not using that apt thing are you?”

“App,” Ian corrected.

“Well, whatever you call it," Frank said, pulling out a small, bulky black box. “Still feels less reliable than the old Scope Boxes, doesn’t it?”

“Nevermind,” Brock said, forestalling an argument. He turned back to Frank. “Didn’t you get an alarm?”

Frank sighed and stuffed his Scope Box back into the pocket of his jacket. “Course we did. We’ve been getting alarms all morning, though, haven’t we, Foster.”

Foster mumbled something that might have been agreement

Brock frowned. “You mean multiple rifts?”

“Nah, nothing like that,” Frank replied. “Just false alarms. Going off all over the city. Never anything there.”

“Could they be closing already?” Brock asked.

“You ever seen a rift close that fast, boy? Usually takes a couple days.”

Brock rubbed his bottom lip with one finger. “You think someone hacked the system?”

Frank shrugged. “Haven’t the foggiest. That’s for Head Office to figure out. I just go where the shots are fired.”

Foster snorted and Frank shot him an irritated look before returning his gaze to Brock.

“William here, thinks we’re wasting our time chasing wild herrings.”

“You forget there are real problems out there,” Foster started, “Like what happened to Turner.”

“And you forget who’s in charge!” Frank snapped.

Foster clenched his jaw, but kept his peace.

Satisfied Foster would keep his mouth shut, Frank continued, “Now—”

That was as far as he got before the world exploded in fire and heat.