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collar and spun me around. “You were following me,” Nicole said.
    “No I wasn’t. I was pricing out, like, vent brushes. Seriously, I was.”
    She practically gasped, disgusted by the obviousness of my lie. She pointed to my earbuds. “Nice Skull Candy. I peg you the classic rock type. The Stones, Zeppelin, Hendrix, nothing after you were born.”
    “You got me.”
    “Then I know you have The Smiths all over your playlists, right?”
    “In my top ten favorite bands, maybe even top five.” I hadn’t heard of them.
    She pointed to my hip. The jack end of my headphone set had fallen out of my pocket. Clearly my Skull Candy knockoff wire led to no music player. “If you’re going to pretend to be listening to music,” she said, “you should also pretend not to hear what I’m saying.” She hurried across the street to the east side waiting area. The eastbound riders had a well-lit modern glass awning that actually kept them dry. We westbound folk made do with poorly patched corrugated metal that leaked rainwater the color of old blood. The light in the ad box was dead, and the sun-faded poster was for a zombie show that had gone off the air three years before. Across the street, Nicole was leaning against an ad box that featured seasonal fare from Whole Foods, the prettiest pumpkins you’ve never seen in real life. We stayed like this for a while, each under our respective awnings, until the ridiculousness of the situation fully hit me. Why didn’t I just tell her I was worried about her and apologize?
    I jogged across the street. “I’m sorry,” I said.
    “For what? Stalking me, or lying about it?” She looked down the boulevard for signs of a bus, none coming. “Did you see it?” she said. “The bandage?”
    “No.”
    “You’re lying yet again.”
    “Not all of it.”
    “How much?”
    “Only, like, the edge of it.”
    “Good.”
    I stood there for another half a minute or so, just nodding, waiting for an eastbound bus when she knew I was headed for the west side. “Take care,” I said, flipping up my jacket collar in anticipation of the rain.
    “The dude in CVS,” she said.
    “He was a douche,” I said.
    “He wasn’t apologizing for being creepy, for hitting on me. Did you see his eyes? They were filled with it. Pity. Genuine pity. He might as well have said ‘I’m sorry your life is over.’” Her voice had softened, and I had a hard time hearing her. She was talking to herself. “Like at the hospital, with Emma.”
    “Emma?”
    “The way everybody looks at her. The way I try not to.” She seemed to remember I was there, turning to me. “My friend. She’s sick.”
    I’d gathered that much. “Sorry.”
    “She doesn’t let it get her down, though. She’s amazing. Seriously, why did that dude have to look at me that way?”
    Did she really expect me to have the answer? I regretted crossing the street. I should have just left her alone. “I’m running a little late,” I said.
    “Me too.”
    I caught myself before I said good luck. “Bye,” I said, stepping off the curb.
    “Work?” she said.
    “Huh?”
    “Running late for work?”
    “Yeah. You?”
    “No.”
    Course not,
I’m thinking.
Why ever would you have to work?
Rich people’s four-letter word. I wondered if I could make it across the street without being run down. The cars wouldn’t stop coming.
    “Your car in the shop?” she said.
    “Not allowed to drive,” I said.
    “You’re not sixteen after all?”
    “No, I am. It’s just, I have this condition. Long story.”
    “Sorry,” she said.
    “Not your fault.”
    “No, I know, I was just saying.”
    A thunder blast seemed to slant the rain for a second. She flinched, grabbed my sleeve, let go. I felt bad for wanting to leave her there. “I do, though,” I said.
    “Do?”
    “Drive. Forklift.”
    “A
fork
lift.”
    “For work.”
    “Clearly.”
    Where not to work if you’re a hacker who aspires to stay off government radar: the Apple Genius