I make up for lost time.

I know what Rey would say. He’d call me lazy. He’d trot out parables about ants and grasshoppers. But I refuse to feel bad about actually living my life for once instead of cowering in fear.

It’s almost too easy here. I get comfortable.

Maybe even careless.

And that’s how she finds me.

Normally any wallets I lift go straight into my duffel bag, and I go through them later when it’s dark and I’m not in a crowded area. But I’m hungry and low on cash and end up leaning against a palm tree on a nice, quiet section of beach. I’m rifling through my haul when she speaks from behind me.

“You’re just looking to get busted, aren’t you?”

I flinch and twist around, pulling my bag closer to me as I get a good look at the person this high, slightly raspy voice has come from. She looks like she’s a few years older than me, with deeply tanned skin and shiny black hair that’s pulled back in a ponytail. She’s wearing a lot of dark eye makeup and a gray tank top over cutoff jean shorts.

I stammer the beginnings of a few words and scramble to my feet. She laughs a little.

“Don’t worry,” she says with a shrug. “I’ve got enough reasons of my own to avoid the cops.”

She stares at me with dark brown eyes, waiting for me to say something, but I don’t know what to do. I’ve been avoiding people the whole time I’ve been here—old habits—and no one’s really gone out of their way to talk to me. But this girl seems . . . nice.

“Okay, so do you not talk or something?” she asks. “What’s your name?”

I open my mouth, and then stop. It’s a simple question, but of course I have no answer. At least not one I can give her truthfully. So I think back to a person I liked being.

“Cody,” I finally say. The name I used in Canada.

“Cody,” she repeats. “It’s nice to meet you finally. I’m Emma.”

Shit. What does she mean by “finally”? I stare at her face, analyzing it, looking for signs that she might be a Mog—ready to fight or fly at a moment’s notice if it comes to that.

“Oh, please. I’ve seen you lurking around. It’s impossible not to. I’m surprised the police haven’t picked you up yet. You look totally sketch when you’re on the prowl. It’s crazy that you even get close enough to people to lift off them.”

Oh. Well, the good news is, she doesn’t seem to notice that I’m able to pick pockets because of my Legacy. The bad news is, apparently I’m not nearly as stealthy as I thought I was.

“No offense,” she continues, squinting at me a little. “You don’t talk much, do you?”

“I guess not,” I say. I’ve never really thought about it. “I used to talk a lot when I was younger and then it was just me and . . .” I don’t know how to finish the sentence—realize that I’ve said too much already.

Luckily, Emma simply nods her head.

“You working for anyone?” she asks.

“No, it’s only me,” I say. Then I’m confused about what she’s even asking. “Wait, what do you mean?”

Stupid. I don’t know why, but I’m slipping up. I haven’t told her anything important—haven’t even scratched the fucked-up surface that is my past—but there’s no reason I should be telling her anything.

She just smiles and nods at my bag.

“Buy me an arepa and maybe I’ll tell you.”

If Rey were here, we’d be fleeing. Gone. I wouldn’t have even been given the chance to talk to Emma. But as much as I imagine Rey’s voice shouting at me to excuse myself and blend in with the crowd and make a break for the nearest sparsely inhabited island, he’s not actually here.

Besides, I haven’t talked to anyone in a long time. Not really. Maybe I’ll learn something useful. And if anything goes wrong and she leads me into a trap or something, I’ve got telekinetic powers and the ability to fly away. I’m practically untouchable.

“Okay,” I say, forcing a little smile. “What’s an arepa?”

She takes me to a little food stand up the beach and I order two arepas. When the cart owner tells me it’ll be six dollars, Emma says something in Spanish and the owner scowls.

“Three dollars,” he says, handing over two golden disks that shine in the sunlight. I pay and we walk away. The beach is on one side of us, a row of luxury hotels on the other.

“What was that about?” I ask. I bite into my arepa, which turns out to be one of the most delicious things I’ve ever eaten—savory-sweet corn cakes sandwiching melted white cheese. I’m in heaven.

“Just keeping that guy from taking advantage of you,” Emma says. “He thought you were a tourist.”

“What’d you tell him?”

“Just that I knew he was overcharging you.” She pauses for a beat. “Maybe I mentioned my brother’s name. He’s kind of a big deal around here.”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“Let’s just say if you were lifting those wallets for someone, it’d probably be him.”

“What, is he like . . . a gangster?” Even as the words come out I realize how dumb they sound, but my mind immediately went to a mob movie I caught the day before when I’d spent half the waking hours in a theater. Cheese strings from my mouth to the golden half moon in my hand.