Fake It Till You Ace It

d like a war zone that the ci

fternoon light. The street was lined with boarded-up windows

. Iverson didn't even turn his head.

milk crate. The man held out a greasy pap

of his pocket, flicked a crumpled five-dollar bill between h

The brick walls were covered in overlapping layers of g

, passing a small plastic baggie back and forth. They hea

ad. His face was a blank, emotionless mas

meone who had nothing to lose and was hoping for a reason to snap. They scrambled backw

saw the faded, buzzing neon

open. The brass bell attached to the

es, and mothballs. The lighting was terrible, castin

tting behind the counter. He was squinting at a horse r

is voice rough from cigars. "The rich boy.

voice flat. He didn't stop to chat. He walked straig

ed moving the second Iverson walked into their aisle. Their eyes darted to

d to the other. "Baggy clothes, hood up. He'

ht hand drifted down to his belt, resti

dark, mocking smirk pulled

arted shoving boxes aside. He dragged metal objects across the wire racks,

ckward. His heel caught the edge of a cardboard box, and he k

ched down and pulled a bulky

red-and-white p

, and squeezed the trigger. A loud, piercing burst

. He clicked i

, completely ignoring the two clerk

bill from his pocket and slapp

it up to the light. "What the hell

meone," Iverson said. The dange

sirens and the chaotic noise in the background of Brenda's phone call flashed through his mi

door open much har

Iverson stepped out onto the sidewalk, blending inst

p, pulled the drawstrings of his hoodie tight against