She found time to say, “No,” to Wright’s hopeful grin. “I have something to check out. You . . . guard the truck.” “Sylvie,” Wright said, “no one wants this truck. I’m broke and on foot, and I don’t want this truck.” “Shh.” She put her hand up, signaling silence. The echoes were consolidating, becoming distinct. That meant they were close. Sylvie peered over his shoulder and spotted them by movement. Soft-edged forms, their shapes blurred by motion and the diffuse trickle-down glow of the distant streetlamp. She counted five, maybe six, maybe four—they wavered and bled together, little knots of darkness walking companionably close for all their silence. Heading for the mall. “Not a gang,” she said, half to herself, half-soliciting Wright’s opinion. “They’re grouped too close for machismo.” Wright nodded. “So, you gonna call the cops?” “And say what? No, I’m going to watch.” She raised the binoculars again, twisted the zoom, trying to get a better look.
