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concrete.
    Feeling dizzy, I looked back the way we’d come. There was no brick wall. But there was a doorway—one big enough for a truck to pass through—with a strange curtain draped across it. It seemed to be made of dozens of strips of heavy plastic, all painted to look like bricks.
    From this side, the illusion was pretty obvious. But in the dimly lit tunnel, those strips of flexible plastic looked exactly like an impenetrable brick wall.
    The cyclists all parked their rides in a designated area. Around us, people rushed forward to accept the riders’ gear and help them dismount. I gaped at all the activity. Everyone was in motion. Everyone was busy.
    And every one of them was a kid—many not much older than me.
    The dreadlocked leader pulled off her helmet and tossed it to a younger girl, thirteen maybe, who was collecting them. Then she dismounted and hurried over to a tall, dark-skinned boy her own age, who interrupted his conversation with two other kids in order to greet her.
    â€œAny problems, Sharyn?” I heard him ask. His voice was deep and authoritative.
    â€œNothing to it, bro.” Sharyn grinned. “Credit’s all Helene’s though. She tipped us off, and we made the grab and split before the Deaders even knew what happened!” Then she laughed—the sound strangely musical.
    I climbed unsteadily off the rear of the bike. My driver slapped my back. “Good ride, kid. I’m Chuck Binelli.”
    â€œWill…Ritter.”
    He grinned. “I know. Welcome aboard, Will.”
    I wanted to ask “Aboard what? ” but suddenly Helene was there, grabbing my arm and pulling me across the floor.
    â€œWhat is this place?” I asked her.
    â€œThis is Haven!” she replied. “Yeah, I know it’s kind of a stupid name, but it goes back to the beginning, so we’re kind of stuck with it. This big room here is where most of the work gets done. We pretty much just call it the Big Room. Imaginative, huh? Anyway, come on—there are some people who’ve been waiting a long time to meet you.”
    A long time?
    â€œTom…Sharyn, this is—” Helene began, dragging me over to the tall boy and the dreadlocked girl. I suddenly noticed how alike they were, even down to their identical brown eyes.
    â€œâ€”Will Ritter,” the boy finished. He smiled and stuck out his hand. “Tom Jefferson. This here’s my sister, Sharyn.”
    He shook hands with me—something I wasn’t very used to doing.
    â€œUm…hi” was all I could think of to say.
    â€œHe wants to be a cop!” Helene declared. I looked at her, a bit surprised that she would just blurt that out.
    â€œThat right?” Sharyn remarked. She elbowed me playfully. “Straight or bent?”
    â€œSharyn!” Tom said sharply.
    â€œJust kidding!” The girl winked at me. “A straight cop, huh, Will?”
    â€œJust like his old man,” Tom added.
    â€œHow do you know about my dad?” I asked.
    Tom glanced at Helene. “You didn’t tell him?”
    â€œDidn’t feel right,” she replied. “I didn’t know the guy. You two did.”
    â€œThanks, Helene,” said Sharyn, looking as if she meant it.
    Her brother nodded gravely. “Will, there’s a whole mess of stuff that you need to know. But we ain’t got time for all that. Right now I’m guessing that you’re freaked out. I don’t blame you. So let’s keep things going on low gear for a while. When did you start Seeing Corpses?”
    I said, “This morning.”
    Tom nodded again. With his thick neck and broad shoulders, he looked like a varsity football player. Beneath the closely cropped mat of kinky black hair atop his head, his dark eyes were filled with warmth, sympathy, and a fierce perception.
    Quietly, he said, “Sucks…don’t it?”
    The question carried such sincerity, such understanding,