Kristinav Johnson let out a soft, noncommittal hum and began to slow the sedan, the high-performance engine purring as the car glided toward the curb near the mouth of the alleyway. I had already reached for the door handle, ready to vanish back into the shadows of my own world, when her voice stopped me cold.
"Here. Take this."
I paused, one foot already on the pavement, and looked back. Her hand, pale and elegant against the dark leather upholstery, was holding out a slim, high-end smartphone with a massive, gleaming glass screen. It was the kind of device that cost more than I made in three months of back-breaking labor.
A flash of heat—a mix of embarrassment and sudden, jagged anger—surged through me. I felt the familiar sting of the "charity case" label. "What? You still can't stan
