The kid couldn’t have been more than sixteen. Beat-up bike, hoodie two sizes too big, eyes darting like he’d stolen something—though he hadn’t. I pulled up alongside him after a call about someone matching his description messing around behind the gas station.
I asked his name, and he hesitated. Tried to speak, but it came out chopped. “M-M-M-Mal…”
He flinched, cheeks flushing bright red. “M-Malcolm.”
Something about that hit weird. I stepped closer, and he clutched his backpack tighter. “Malcolm what?
“Malcolm P-P-Perez.”
My stomach dropped.
English