Chapter 4: The Warden

The old outlet mall sat off the highway with the lights still on.

Half the stores were boarded up.

The parking lot was huge and empty and painted with someone's spray-can start line.

On Friday night it was full of people.

Motorcycles lined the curb.

Phones were up everywhere.

Music was coming out of somebody's open trunk.

I had never been to the races.

For a year I'd told Jesse the races were for losers and people who wanted to die young.

I'd already died young once.

I knew what it was like.

Jesse parked his bike at the end of the row.

It was an old black motorcycle with a dented tank, and I realized I'd never once asked where it came from.

He handed me his spare helmet to hold.

"Stay by the curb," he said. "Don't stand on the line."

"Okay."

He looked at me.

"Okay?"

"You know this place," I said. "I don't."

The purple bar flickered.

Ninety-nine point seven.

[See, that went down,] the System muttered. [I'm writing a report.]

People were looking at us.

At me, mostly.

I heard my name a few times, and a word I didn't like.

Warden.

Dane was at the start line on his red bike, laughing with a crowd around him.

A girl was leaning on his shoulder.

Glossy blonde hair, white cropped jacket, phone up and filming.

Darcy Shelton.

She'd liked Jesse first, freshman year.

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