Hope Tim wasn't stupid enough to actually attempt a conversation with Rocky the She-Bully," Nick mumbled to himself as he raced down the wooden steps to Hiker's Canyon. The canyon was a large, dry creek bed that separated the massive, newly built homes from the refugee camp and its shanties and dorms and teenagers. The Geneva virus, also known as the genetic plague, had swept across Earth nearly twenty years ago. It attacked the nervous system, killing the adults but crippling the children. By the end of it all, it left millions of children homeless. Local orphanages were unable to deal with the demands, forcing the countries to form their own intranational refugee camps.

Nick couldn't have felt luckier.

Moving next to the camp was Earth's saving grace. He couldn't stand all the kids at the private school. They were snobbish, preppie students. But refugee kids? They knew how to have a good time. Tough as nails and wouldn't say no to anything.

Unfortunately the refugee kids didn't like Tim very much, other than as an opportunity to pound his face in.

"I said leave Tim alone!" Nick yelled to a six-foot-tall, fourteen-year-old—well, girl, if he were to be categorical about it. In a stroke of prophetic naming, her parents had named her "Rocky." Shortly thereafter, they passed away from the virus. The refugee kids ordained her with the full title, "Rocky the She-Bully." With this in mind, Nick made a quick, confident assessment.

Tim's digestive system wouldn't survive the afternoon.

"Rocky!" Nick yelled again as he jumped several steps and landed in packed dirt.

"I can—take—her, Nick," Tim said, trying to stand, but his legs were matchsticks. "Go away! I don't need your help."

Rocky shoved him down.

"Leave him alone," Nick said.

"No, Nick—khaa—khaa!" Tim clutched his pant legs, letting out another round of coughs. "You promised."

"I can help." Nick leaned around Rocky.

"Go away! I said I don't need your help."

Nothing could have been farther from the truth. Nick had been protecting Tim since kindergarten.

"Look, everyone," Rocky said. "Tim's big brother's come to the rescue, again."

"Little brother," Tim said, trying to stand up again. "Nick's the little brother. I'm the oldest."

"By twenty-eight minutes," Nick said. "We're fraternal."

Rocky's porpoise-shaped neck swung around. She critiqued Tim's floppy physique, dusty, blond hair and sloping brow. Even though he was fourteen, Tim wasn't much taller than a seventh grader. He even had small hands and slow reflexes, like their mom.

Rocky's unibrow led the way back to Nick. He was tall and stocky with large hands, more like their grandfather, Grand.

An unearthly sound came from deep within Rocky. It proved to be a laugh. "Hah, hah, haaaaah!" Her finger pointed at Tim. "Tim's the big brother! Oh, that's funny! Ha ha ha! Ha ha ha! You're like Nick's genetic fart."

The hecklers roared at that one.

"Shut your drain," Nick gritted through clenched teeth.

Rocky's mouth clapped shut, sucking up the heckler's laughs with it. Her horse-like legs pushed her forward.

"Out of the way, Rocky," Nick said, trying to step around her, but she shadowed him until they were facing each other, neck to chin.

His eyes crept upward, and he didn't like what he saw. Either Rocky's hair hadn't been combed for months, or the brush had completely given up, taking an easier job as a street scrubber. Her right piggly hand hung clenched, while her other hand held a Pappy's Ice Cream, which left her mouth and fingers caked in brownish white cream. From her nose came an inordinate amount of hair, especially for a fourteen-year-old. In fact, she just had an inordinate amount of facial hair altogether.

Nick sighed and said to himself for the second time that day, "I really need to get off this planet."

A spark leapt around a black bracelet on Rocky's wrist. The refugee camps couldn't afford to lose track of a refugee because it would have to answer to BioFarms: producer, buyer and seller of human organs. In order to pay for the cost of the camps, the U.S. government had a contract with the BioFarms Corporation. All refugees and their organs were considered their property until the teenagers' eighteenth birthday. It was an ideal business arrangement for the organ-manufacturing corporation. Mortality rates in the refugee camps were extremely high, and it was bioethically required to pass on one's organs upon death. Since the organ manufacturing company would be upset if they lost a "harvest", most refugees were leashed by black bracelets, unable to wander more than fifteen miles from camp. If they did, their leashes would set off electric shocks, reminding them to return to the perimeter. For the unruly refugees, their leashes were set to three miles.

Rocky's was set to one hundred yards.

Her leash sparked again, making her arm twist.

Nick smirked. "Got you on a short leash?"

"I don't feel it no more."

Rocky took a long, drippy lick from her Pappy's Ice Cream, showing the readout on her leash: Geneva Virus Levels: 0

Rocky took a long, drippy lick from her Pappy's Ice Cream, showing the readout on her leash: Geneva Virus Levels: 0.05. Chance of Cardiac Arrest: 1 in 100. Life Expectancy: 19.

A pang of sympathy ran through Nick. Growing up in that refugee camp wasn't an easy life. Maybe she was just misunderstood.

"They shortened her leash again," a bystander said. "Rocky was caught sneaking into a pet shop off of I-90. Mixed all the pet food up with the Geneva virus and fed it to the animals."

Rocky smiled a brown pudding smile.

Nick's sympathies evaporated. "What do you want with Tim?"

"I told him to give me his pudding finger." Rocky curled her lip. "He wouldn't. We don't get any fancy stuff like you preppies up there. So what? You gonna hit me now?"

"I'm not supposed to hit a girl. Grand wouldn't like it," Nick said, clearly against his will.

"You won't hit a girl? Oh, look at you," Rocky said. "Aren't you a goody two-shoes 'cause you won't hit a girl. But the real question is . . ." Her head bobbed like a buoy. "Who's. The. Girl?"

"You're right. That's a very good question."

"Oooh," the hecklers said.

"What? Did? You? Say?" Rocky's eyes grew.

Don't hit her, Nick thought. Don't hit her. Grand wouldn't like it.

"Come on, Tim. Let's go." Nick turned toward the house.

"Oh no, you didn't. Where're you going? Is it feeding time for grandpapa?" Rocky rounded her arms imitating an old grandpa. "I need a wipe, Nicky. I think some of this plum juice dribbled on my big, fat, belly!"

The hecklers guffawed in response.

Nick turned quickly and took three long paces, cocked his head up and grinned. He smiled so long, Rocky started to get an uncertain look in her eyes. Nick found the smile to be a very useful, versatile instrument in a confrontational situation. Way better than a grimace. It was great for a face-off with knuckle draggers like Rocky. You just smile ear-to-ear, long enough for your opponent to let their guard down. All the while thinking, I'm about to punch you in the face.

Like right now, for example.

CRACKK!