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of his neck, gently cupping the ridge of his skull. The wiseguy façade Nelson kept so carefully in place slipped for a moment at the unexpected tenderness, and he moaned without meaning to. The sound was lost in the vibration of the truck bed, the panicked din of screaming people that carried through the metal walls, and the screech of the tires biting into pavement.
    Javier might have felt the moan as a subtle vibration against his lips and tongue. Nelson supposed he would never know.

Chapter 5

    Nelson Oliver. It was a good name, Tim decided. Like Nelson Mandela. And Oliver Twist. Nelson Oliver would be a good superhero name—although it would be the hero’s street name, the identity he used while he navigated the mundane world. His crime-fighting name would be something sleeker. Something that showed fierceness, but intelligence, too. Dark, but not evil. Something that hinted at power, without being too overt….
    “I fink my toof is loose,” Randy moaned.
    “Don’t wiggle it.”
    “Oh fug. Definitely loose.”
    Tim dodged a garbage can with smoke streaming out of it rolling down the middle of the street. How could a garbage can manage to roll and burn at the same time? “Stop messing around with it—leave it alone. If you were a dentist, would you have your office open right now? Because I wouldn’t. I’d be home. Or locked in the basement.”
    Randy groaned in dismay.
    Four people. Tim had expected to pick up one person outside the Canaan Products protest, and he’d ended up with four. He supposed he should be glad for the support, but he’d never been all that good with people.
    Even people like Nelson Oliver. Especially people like that. Good-looking, effortlessly cool guys like Nelson Oliver made Tim nervous. And when he was nervous, he sounded like a creep. In an effort to seem less creepy, he supposed he should attempt to be nice to Javier’s friends. “So,” he said to Randy. “You’re an activist? What group?”
    “Huh?”
    Tim assumed Randy hadn’t heard him over all the crashing outside. And the screaming. He repeated, louder, “What group do you belong to?”
    “I dunno what the fug you’re talking about.”
    Javier came forward and crouched in the gap between the seats. “None. We just met at the conference.”
    Javier didn’t know him? That could be dangerous. Randy might be just the type of extremist right pro-foodie who worked at Canaan Products and loved every minute of it. Or a nutjob from one of the extreme leftist groups who’d shown up outside to protest—with guns. Why were moderates who could think for themselves so hard to come by? “What about Nelson? He’s with you. Right?”
    “No,” Javier said. “I don’t know anyone. But they helped me get out of the conference hall when the power blew.” Javier was there in Tim’s peripheral vision, trying to pull him into a conversation. But Tim had more urgent things to do—like staying on the road without hitting the car in front of him that kept jolting forward and braking fast. Or like running anyone over, because even though the truck was now well past the mob, scattered people were still throwing things—bricks, shoes, clods of broken asphalt—and darting into the street to chase each other. Plenty more were realizing that running while trying to carry big electronics got old, really fast. Javier suggested, “We should at least get them home safe.”
    “This isn’t a limo service.”
    “I am not attempting to find my way home in this,” Marianne shouted from the recesses of the truck behind Javier. “It’s not safe for a single girl. You can see it isn’t safe, can’t you?”
    Tim spared a glance toward the back. Marianne was straining to see past Javier. Nelson must have been somewhere behind her. “Right. Yeah. We’ll all go back to my place and figure out what’s going on.” All was good, Tim decided, since all included Nelson Oliver.
    “What the fug is going on?” Randy said. He turned on the