You don’t go gettin’ police robots to chase you through the Westside because you want to have fun. But the excitement that Tariq felt at the thought of this challenge …

He’d outrun actual cops. He’d outrun the wheeled robots they called “The Chris Browns” (on account of all the dancing they did in their promotional videos in the ’20s).

These new Interceptors were a whole new animal. Like an actual animal. Robots that moved like cheetahs with a hand that was as smooth as a card shark’s. They looked fast on the video Tariq saw online. But the real desire to outrun one came when he was looking out of his bedroom window, and he saw Michi get caught. There was enough break in the trees lining the brownstones for Tariq to get a good view of the street in front of his second-story room. There was no one in the street except Ms. Jonnika. She was sitting on her porch with the glow of her phone illuminating her face. She only looked up when Michi let out an inarticulate plea as he came tearing around the corner. Pulaski was always a busy street where one might be able to hide in the confusion of commerce and traffic. But Michi came flailing around the corner on to Springfield, Tariq’s quiet street. Michi was running hard and fast, but you could already see he was getting tired and starting to stumble.

He slow anyway.

The Interceptor came around the corner like a greyhound, reached out that long arm while closing in on Michi, then grabbed his ankle in mid stride. At the same time, the Interceptor’s legs folded in on themselves, and Michi went down hard. No matter how hard he tried, he could not get the hand off of his ankle. The Interceptor stayed there heavy enough to anchor Michi in the place where he fell, too heavy to be dragged by the tired man.

“Smokin’ all them squares make yo’ lungs weak,” Tariq muttered to himself while he watched the Peppa pull up with flashing blue lights, handcuff, and search Michi. The Interceptor didn’t release him until they were ready to put him in the squad car.

Tariq just knew he could outrun one of those robots. Because Tariq was fast. Had been since he was a shotty. He used to make money running product for one of the Ol’ Grips on the block. He didn’t even know what “product” was. He would run the package and then run the money back. Carlton (that was the Ol’ Grips name, Carlton, like the rich dude from those old reruns), would give him the product, and then set a timer. Tariq would be off and back with the money. When Tariq got back, Carlton would tell him his time. And because, at five, Tariq didn’t have a good handle on how space and time were connected, he expected to beat his time no matter how far away the drop was. And he often did. It wasn’t until he was a teen that he realized Carlton sent him about a mile away from the block and Tariq had gotten back in eight minutes. Eight minutes to run a city mile, drop the product, collect the money, and run back. Tariq still remembered how impatient he was when the drop acted like he couldn’t find the money—messin’ up his time.

When Tariq’s dad found out what was going on, he put a stop to it. Tariq was scared about his dad talking to Carlton. Pops didn’t say much. Didn’t raise his voice, but Pops was a massive man and had hands that felt like tools. He would look at you through his thick glasses, and when Tariq saw the way that Pops was looking at Carlton, he could feel wrath trouble the air. Pops was about to whoop Carlton. But they just talked. Said some stuff Tariq didn’t understand. And Carlton, from that day on, only nodded at Tariq when he saw him in the street.

But by then, Tariq was already obsessed with how fast he could run. His speed had become neighborhood legend. People were fascinated with the distance Tariq could cover in a given time. There are cultural prizes that are preserved in museums under glass. But cultures that are not granted museums still care for their prizes and artifacts. They are still cared for even if that care looks like just leaving them alone to live. It was understood, nobody gave Tariq anything that would slow him down. You couldn’t even sell him bootleg shoes if the shoddy quality might hurt his blessed feet.

Pops always complained that he wished schools still had track teams. There was a team at the park district Tariq ran with until he was a freshman. But the coach had a stroke and after some attempts to replace him the team was disbanded. There were years when Tariq had no one to compete against. Just himself and these blocks that had no blocks … just cracks. Sometimes just hanging out, somebody would dare him to run the block to see how fast he could go. It was a bet that meant they would throw Tariq a bit of coin.

Tariq had just finished his senior year, and he was settling into the reality that his skill, his gift, was not a gift for grown men, just boys. As he looked at adulthood, his opportunities for work did not account for his ability to move concrete beneath his feet. He would be starting a job at a fulfillment center. But … c’mon. He was the fastest boy in Lawndale.

So, when Carlton’s messenger, Tayla, told Tariq that Carlton wanted to talk to him, he didn’t know why, he just knew he would be running.

“We gonna steal an Interceptor,” Carlton said, sitting on a desk in a garage that was tucked away in an industrial district.

Surrounded by other grimy body shops and a junkyard, everything here was dirty except Carlton, who smelled like cologne and was wearing a tracksuit with a gold chain like he was a mobster or something. Tayla leaned in a corner. She was a perfect blend of ease and vigilance.

“Ever since President Triplett put that embargo on the East African Union, parts are hard to find. Processors, chips … all that is rare. The parts in that Interceptor will sell for at least four million and I want one. I got a girl who got all the tech stuff worked out. She knows how to catch one. We just need to give the robot an … incentive.”

The way he said “incentive” didn’t hit Tariq the way it should have. Tariq’s brain moved almost as fast as his feet. He knew the word Carlton wanted to use was “bait.”

But again, Tariq was kind of using Carlton, too, right?

“So, my girl smart,” Carlton reiterated as a way of deflecting attention from what Tariq picked up. “She thought of everything. She’s gonna tell you what you have to do.” Carlton chuckles. “And you know what I want you to do.”

“Run,” says Tariq with a smirk on his face.

“Thas’right. I want you to run.” Carlton put a hand on Tariq’s shoulder like a pep-talking track coach.

“You got this? Yeah, I know you do,” Carlton said without waiting for an answer to his own question. Then he looked down and away. Tariq saw something that looked like a flicker of … he wasn’t sure.

“Her name is Crack. She a lil’ meh …” Carlton wobbled his open hand in the air. “… on the people skills, but she knows computers and robots and stuff. She’ll tell you what to do. You pull this off for me, I’ll have you in a different pair of track shoes, every day, for a month.”

“I like shoes. But I can’t turn shoes into rent and cheeseburgers. You wanna talk cash?”

When Carlton told him how much, Tariq smirked and rolled his eyes. “Oh … you must know somebody faster than me. Cause you just quoted second-fastest prices.”

The haggle was quick. Carlton tried it. Carlton was Carlton. Tariq made no secret this was mostly about the challenge.

Mostly.

But they were able to strike a deal that still made Carlton a bunch of money and filled the vacuum that Tariq would leave in his wake with enough money for rent and breath.

Tariq tried to hide a full grin as he pounded Carlton and got out the chair with the splitting green vinyl seat and dirty arm rests.

The moment Tariq was looking away, he removed the bindings of humility and laughed. Tarique actually laughed.

Tariq versus The Interceptor was all the residents of North Lawndale talked about. It was trash talk on the back porches and Flash GIFs online. It was pre-game analysis as people talked by their cars on Sundays after church or waited for their cut after a day’s work. Odds were calculated, bets were made. Expertise on the chances was sworn to God, Mama, Nations and gang leaders long dead.

Wherever Tariq went, that was all anybody wanted to talk about. And he, in turn, was happy to enumerate the ways he would smoke Peppa’s lil’ robot. Lil’ stanky robot.

I heard instead of batteries, they run on donuts.

It’s gonna sugar crash after the first block.

You know how these cops be. They only shoot ’cause they can’t run.

Even the bullets be winded by the time they get down the street.

Bullets packed with bacon grease.

The morning of the heist, Tariq woke to see the poster of Florence “Flo-Jo” Griffith Joyner over his bed. His first waking thought was that he should cut off one of his pant legs just like her. Imagine doing all that work to be magnificent and taking the extra effort to look Thee. Actual. Part.

Imagine being so fast that the drag created by your long black hair only made you look more glorious instead of slowing you down. To finish beating everyone in the world and then victory lap with both your fingers pointed to space in defiance of everyone who ever told you “no” or “slow down.”

This was his waking fantasy since he’d asked his coach who the fastest woman in the world was and the coach showed him a picture of a woman who died before his father was born. A speed goddess whose hands would high five heaven at the end of her races and then lap the track just to show off. This poster of her crossing the finish line in a one-legged cyan body suit was a birthday present he got on his tenth birthday and his altar to the idea of fast and fabulous.

He was so lost in these thoughts that it took him a moment to register Pops weighing down the edge of his bed. His room always felt smaller when his father ducked through the door. Tariq had gotten all of his father’s legs and little of his ridiculous mass. Pops was quiet until Tariq stirred. Then he heard a sudden but easy intake of breath as if Pops was just waking up.

“You’re up,” he said as if it needed saying.

“Ay. What’s up?”

Pops didn’t say anything in answer to Tariq’s question. Not for a long minute. Tariq knew to let the silence sit. Pops was a slow cooker.

“You know where I got your name from?”

Tariq never thought much about it. He thought it was an old-timey name. Like from the 1990s.

“Tariq Iben Ziyad. He was a Moroccan general. Conquered, what we now call Spain. A lion of a man. Unbeatable. So I thought this was a strong name for a boy in a world full of challenges.

“And when you were born, the challenges were out there. The same ones me and your aunties had but … y’know … more raw. Faster.

“I remember when the world still had a space for a talent like yours. And you are a talent. So when I found out that you were runnin’ for Carlton and you were five—five—I pulled you out of that. But I had no place to put you.”

“But you tried …” Tariq wasn’t sure if it was okay to speak.

Pops sighed.

“Yeah, I tried. But tryin’ is not the same. I couldn’t find another place that saw what Carlton saw in you. He saw function in a boy without function—purpose. You could have been an Olympian. A track star. But they took all the programs that would have put you before the world. Took it all and used that money to buy new beaches for the Northside and police robots for the Westside.”

Pops turned to look at Tariq. The bed shifted oddly. Pop’s eyes were blurry. It looked like he hadn’t slept.

“I don’t want you messin’ with Carlton. You know that, right?”

Tariq nodded his head, unable to decipher, despite his manic brain’s best efforts, what his Pops was saying.

“But … the Bible says that a man’s talent will make space for him. I’m not sure if that’s what the verse meant but here we are. A purpose and a place for your incredible speed.”

“Oh.” Tariq just felt like he was supposed to say something. A second “Oh” was the best he could do.

“So you use it. I want you to take from them. Just … don’t get caught. I ain’t got time to come see you locked up. I will never have that time. You understand?”

“Oh. Ummm … yeah.” Tariq was a poet.

Pops turned his gaze to the floor as if he was considering what to say next. When nothing came, he leaned over and enveloped his son in a hug as big and as soft as his voice. A kiss anointed his forehead like the blessing of David. It was only a little wet.

Tariq wasn’t even worried about his Dad having to see him locked up. There was no danger that his legs hadn’t helped him escape, and he was sure, this would be no different. And after all the garbage Peppa pulled, Tariq couldn’t wait to help take something from them.

He would be a hero. But not the kind of hero they would love.

Watch them not put this on the news.

The night came and Tariq had spent the day in fantasy. He was stretched and limber. He was wearing his Adidas Owens '36s. 3D-printed as one solid shoe from sole to instep. Black with four golden stripes instead of the three. One for each gold medal Jesse Owens won in the 1936 Olympics. His mind had run the race a hundred times and still stumbled over the caveat that Crack presented when they met.

A week ago, Tariq was on time to meet Carlton’s girl, Crack. But when he showed up, Crack was playing Madden. When Tariq knocked on the door to her place, he had to wait. When Crack finally let him in, Tariq thought the place was messy. There were exposed electronics on every surface. There was a box of cellphones next to the couch where Crack was playing, and it occurred to Tariq that Crack didn’t get her name because of some vintage drug. It was because of what she did. She cracked phones, computers, probably passwords.

Tariq waited for Crack to acknowledge his presence. She didn’t. She actually finished the game while Tariq busied himself investigating the apartment, awkwardly, at first, but then with confidence, and finally with resentment at not just having to wait but being ignored.

When the Bears won the game, Crack placed the controller on the table in front of the screen and watched it for a moment. Then she turned to Tariq.

“What you need?”

Tariq rolled his eyes. “Carlton sent me.”

“Right!” she said, wiping her hands on her Bears jersey. “So you finna be Sweetness on this Interceptor?”

“Who?”

“Sweetness? … Walter Payton? … Number 34? … ’85 Super Bowl?” she said with a squint and a grimace.

Tariq was still trying to figure out what she was talking about when Crack sucked her teeth while pulling a tablet from under the debris of projects on the table.

“I swear. How you live here and don’t know here. What y’all learn in them schools? Probably George Washington, Abe Lincoln, and Tom Brady.”

“Who’s Tom Bra—”

“Here’s the plan.” Crack got close to Tariq with the tablet. It was a map of the neighborhood with X’s and O’s in blue and a route drawn in red.

“Look closely and memorize the route.”

Memorize? Before Tariq could get a good look at the tablet Crack pulled it away.

“You probably can’t memorize this route. I’m finna send it to you. What’s your number?”

Tariq gave Crack his number while she typed on the tablet. Tariq felt the vibration in his pocket.

“So the Interceptor models are a dumber version of the Chris Browns. They can recognize big things, rough things, but they aren’t the best problem solvers. So all of their major processing is done through the network. If you want to get it where it needs to be for the boost, then you gotta do something big.”

Crack pointed to a purple box on the tablet with her pinky finger. “Here. The Interceptor is going to pass by here at about 6:30. There are still gonna be a lot of people on the block so you gotta make yourself stand out. This is where the purple box comes in. You gotta wait until you’re about here.” She pointed to the space in front of the box. “This is the jerk joint. As soon as you see the Interceptor CRASH bust that window wide open. Don’t worry about the owner. Carlton got her. You just make sure you do it where you can be seen and heard. A broken window is a surefire way to make the robot pay attention.”

“No problem, I can be a block and half away from the busted window by the time the last piece of glass falls.”

“Noooo.” Crack chuckled and rolled her eyes. “Now how are we supposed to catch it like that? You gonna get us all arrested bustin’ a window and then leaving it to chase anyone that looks like you. You know them things think all of us look alike. Naw. You need to wear this.”

Crack pulled a bracelet from the table. It looked a little chunky in her small hand. The chunky box was a little longer than a watch and a lot thicker. It had a regular black wrist band on it.

“As soon as it sees you bust that window it is gonna call The No-Laws. If it calls backup, I don’t care how hard you run, they gonna pin you in. This is a jammer. It’ll disrupt its network radio, but you gotta make sure you’re less than twenty feet from the robot. You can go up to fifty but you’ll be gambling with your freedom. But more than that it’s gonna get to call for backup, and you’re gonna be at County Jail trying to make friends. So you can run fast as you want—”

“Just not too fast.”

“See? I see you been using that brain on occasion.”

Man! If this wasn’t Carlton’s genius …

“Well, how will I know if I’m within 20 feet of the bebop?”

“Easy. Green is good. Yellow you are getting too far away. Red … the signal went out and you’re gonna have company during all of your showers.”

Tariq could feel his heartbeat slow down. This meant he wouldn’t be able to whoop this robot. He couldn’t watch its spirit die while he left it in his tracks.

On the other hand, he wouldn’t have to open up. Tariq imagined himself bragging to the folks that he wasn’t even running his fastest when he’d outrun the police’s lil’ bebop-robo-dog. How derf would it be to beat the unbeatable and stand at the finish and not even be breathin’ hard.

The plan was easy. It was almost the way Tariq imagined it when he pictured it in his mind while looking at the poster of Florence Griffith Joyner he kept over his bed. Her arms stretched high, praising her victory, her legs the very engines of speed. One covered in flashy leotard, one not. Lookin’ like a superhero. This is how Tariq would celebrate once the robot was captured.

That night, the only difference from his imagining was the block was a bit more crowded than usual. Tariq realized that, despite trying to seem casual, people had come out to see him run.

So here it goes.

Tariq stretched and limbered his body. He called attention to his joints and muscles. Running wasn’t just leg work. His entire body was springs and rubber bands launching him through the air. When he ran, it was important all of him was ready, and if he was, he knew space would part and gesture at the track before him.

Go’nehead.

Tariq eyeballed the large chunk of concrete near the edge of the sidewalk. All he had to do was wait for the Interceptor to come this way. He also noticed some of Carlton’s guys getting people off the street. They were firm but kind. It wouldn’t do to have people cause a scene now.

Peppa’s robots were still pretty bad at identifying people when they were darker than a paper bag. It would be bad if the Interceptor went after the wrong person. With all the movement, Tariq almost missed it. In his periphery, he saw the cat-like robot come around the corner. The Interceptor's movement was smooth and natural. Its body was almost a rectangular box but its legs looked like cheetah limbs. It was still down the way and about to cross the street on its patrol. Tariq pressed the button on the device around his wrist. The light flashed green. He grabbed the concrete chunk, raised it, and threw it through the window of Mr. Jones’ Jamaican Jerk. The sound was loud and intentional in its disruption of the Westside night.

The Interceptor stopped walking mid-stride, frame tilting in the direction of the sound of the broken glass. It didn’t have eyes. Crack said it could see in three hundred and sixty degrees, though. The destruction of property was certainly a crime that would be addressed. Except the Interceptor didn’t move.

C’mon, thought Tariq as he gently bounced from foot to foot. Every part of him wanted to run.

The Interceptor made several false starts. Then Tariq understood that the robot was probably waiting for some signal from the Peppas. But Tariq was blocking the signal. If he kept blocking the signal, then the Interceptor wouldn’t chase him. No chase, no capture, no money.

No win.

Tariq tried to figure out what to do next. Maybe if he—

The Interceptor started, and this time, it completed a step. Then it was coming at Tariq, chewing up pavement and sounding like an old school lawn mower. Tariq spun on the ball of his left foot. It took his body no time to switch from static to subsonic.

The world became still beneath Tariq’s feet. Mounting its own energy so that it could push him forward. His legs were made of foam and steel and propelled by their rejection from the surface of the ground. Tariq was ready to be fast.

He never noticed the first step. It was invisible to his mind but had he noticed it … he would have felt the bottom of his shoe pull the asphalt into itself, the explosion of the muscles in his heart as they spat energy rich blood into his muscles. He would have felt his vessels grow with joyous, red fury.

Tariq was gone just as the Interceptor realized that it might have a chase on its carbon fiber hand. When it did, it had to calculate the change in friction due to the salt, sugar, and roses that circled the ground where Tariq had stood.

Tariq’s chest easily exchanged air, an efficient bellows breathing on the fire in his limbs. The world split before him, and he slid through space the way a steel splinter slid beneath skin. When Tariq sliced his open hand through air, all of time and space made an exception for him.

The Interceptor was on his heels. It went from the friendly trot of a dog to the distance-eating reach of a cheetah. Its body trembled with the violence of a combustion engine, all the while, trying to send a signal to the nearest squad car without success.

Over the wind in his ears, Tariq could hear yells and cheers in Doppler. He was able to notice the royalty of North Lawndale watching him. All of them clapping, pumping fists, hopping and leaping in delight and vengeance. As his slicing hand came up past his face he saw a yellow blur rather than a green one. He was moving too fast. He looked behind him to see that the Interceptor was really far behind. Tariq began to adjust his breathing and shorten his stride.

He was just too fast.

And he was almost to the end. Tariq knew that Carlton had spotters along the route. They were checking on his progress and making sure the trap was ready.

The trap was a building’s doorway about ten blocks away. The building was abandoned. The “doorway” was actually a facade constructed to look like a doorway. The actual door was a modified box van parked in the space between two buildings. Crack had the cargo space of the van lined with a copper mesh. She called it a Faraday cage. She said no signals could get in or out of the cage. Crack got the idea from the bags they used to make her put her cell phone in when she was in school.

Tariq kept glancing at the scrambler on his wrist until it was green. He slowly picked his speed back up but was careful about the distance.

His breathing was good.

His legs made the ground beneath him feel immaterial.

He was good.

He was happy.

He could keep this up for another two miles before he even felt winded.

Tariq saw three flashes of a flashlight. That was the spotter’s signal that everything was ready at the trap. Tariq pushed down Roosevelt and weaved between the cars. He’d noticed that the Interceptors lost speed on turns. Everything lost speed on turns.

Except him. Physics was made a lie.

Tariq cut across the corner and onto the street that was the final stretch. The light on the scrambler was a solid green. He could hear the padded legs of the Interceptor behind him. He slowed just a little and twisted in mid stride to see his pursuer. The Interceptor was really pumping its legs and only just now starting to gain ground now that Tariq was running backwards. This was no contest, at all. This was easy. Tariq turned back around and sped up. He could see the doorway ahead of him. The end of the chase. The end of the greatest physical challenge of his life. And it wasn’t even really a challenge.

Tariq cut left down an ally. He only caught a glimpse of the spotter spreading his arms in confusion.

Tariq heard the Interceptor come around the corner in pursuit. On either side of Tariq were bay doors and loading docks. Ahead of him was a dead end, a graffitied cinder block wall that was part of a storehouse that ran the length of the block. The brightest light being a floodlight making a pyramid down the side of the scrawled white wall. No way out.

Tariq couldn’t see the smile on his face. If he had, he would have told himself to calm down. He could hear the Interceptor get closer and closer as he ran to the dead end of the alley. There was a sound like its arm deploying, ready to take Tariq down. Ready to catch him and not let go.

On the last stride before the wall Tariq lept, and then pushed off the tattooed wall with both feet. As he somersaulted he had a godview of the Interceptor crashing into the wall. Tariq landed behind the wrecked robot and turned to run back down the alley. He almost couldn’t breathe for laughing. He pivoted again, mid-stride, to see the robot struggling behind him. The Interceptor hit pretty hard.

Tariq threw his fists into the air, his fingers pointed to the sky in victory just like Flo-Jo.

Now …

Y’all know that the city don’t take care of these streets since it’s had to spend so much money fixing the buckles on DuSable Drive, right? And you know how much money is holding back Lake Michigan so the waves don’t jump up and snatch a jogger off the Gold Coast. So it isn’t a surprise that while Tariq was celebrating dusting this robot he tripped on a pothole in the alley and tumbled to the ground.

He rolled for what felt like a full minute before he was able to stop. His body only noted the scrapes on his skin in passing. Tariq instinctively went into recovery mode, touching the ground with his palms to push himself back into a running stride. He took a second to look behind himself and saw the robot was getting its feet under itself. In his periphery, Tariq saw the yellow LED on his transmitter. Tariq’s right foot was finally under him. He pushed himself into an upright position. When his left leg came down, there was a stabbing and deep pain. Tariq stumbled and fell again.

He instantly looked up to see if the robot had righted itself. If he was lucky, they could just come get the damaged machine. Carlton might be a little mad that it got scratched up but all the important parts should be in—

The Interceptor was on all four of its legs. Tariq could tell the sensors in the small dome on its body already located him. The Interceptor lurched forward, and Tariq’s whole body tried to move in different directions. But the moment the Interceptor put weight on its front leg, it buckled. The Interceptor went down, the front of its chassis scraping the concrete. Tariq’s heart grabbed at the hope of the disabled Interceptor and got on his feet. His right felt fine besides a scrape from his fall. But the left ankle felt like someone had placed a small spiky marble in it. The pain felt material. Maybe it was broken. Maybe if he couldn’t get moving, he would get caught.

Maybe, right?

Nah. Not, maybe.

Now, he had to relearn how to run.

Tariq lurched forward as fast as he could. He could hear the Interceptor moving. When he looked back he saw that it was on its feet … almost. One foreleg stayed retracted while it lunged forward with its hind legs and caught itself on the remaining foreleg. It looked like a three-legged dog except Tariq’s heart softened for three-legged dogs.

There was quiet except for Tariq’s breathing and the sound of the robot solving the problem of “forward.” Tariq could hear the sound of the Interceptor’s engine attempting to start. It stalled each time. He turned around and now the Interceptor was using its grabbing arm as another leg. It was an unbalanced hobble. It was then that Tariq noticed that the light on his wrist had gone from yellow to green. It was catching up.

The rest of Tariq's body was involved in the process of moving him forward and getting him back on course. Even in his injured state, Tariq was moving faster than a quarter of the homies on the block.

Just a quarter.

Now his arms swung in a wider arc, and his gait was uneven. He could feel himself burning energy way too fast. By the time he got back to the corner at the end of the alley, he was breathing so hard that the air felt like he was trying to swallow a wool suit. He looked up and saw the trap ahead. There was a flash from the spotter hiding in a gangway near the opening. But then he saw the spotter get up and point. She seemed to be pointing and covering her mouth like she wanted to shout out. When she lowered her hand, Tariq could see her mouthing words.

Behind you.

Tariq couldn’t afford to turn around and look. He knew that.

But he did anyway.

And the Interceptor was one stride behind him. It was becoming more efficient with its new gait. Tariq leaned in, pushed himself forward. He was almost there. He needed to get this light back on yellow. But more importantly, he needed to get away.

Forget the money, forget bragging. He just wanted to see home again. He didn’t want to be trapped in a cell, unable to move, unable to hear the air kiss his ears as his legs broke space. He’d been working up the words and the money to take a girl out so she could have a good time. But he’d been thinking about this moment so much he hadn’t even—

Something pulled hard on his foot and Tariq fell. He turned to see the Interceptor, almost all of its legs tucked into its frame and the long arm gripped around Tariq’s foot. Tariq can’t say he didn’t scream. It was his good foot but the throbbing in his ankle became invisible as Tariq heard his father’s promise that he wouldn’t let them get him. He also remembered his father’s promise that he didn’t have time to visit his son in jail. Tariq knew—he knew—what that meant. Tariq’s body was still running. His brain turned off the picture in front of him and thought about Carlton’s face, back at the garage. The eyes dropping away. The look. And the panicked jumbled thoughts fell together and made sense of Carlton’s face. Guilt.

He couldn’t be here. Tariq knew the Interceptor was trying to send a signal for backup. The battery to Tariq’s jammer would run out in minutes and the Peppa would be on the way. Tariq’s entire body kicked against this future … the future.

And then he felt it. He felt the grip slip a little. Tariq gave another hard kick and his foot slipped out of the special edition Adidas celebrating the anniversary of Jesse Owens’s four gold medals at the 1936 Olympics. Tariq got free and got up. He started towards the trap, again.

The spotter had forgotten all pretense of looking covert. She waved Tariq on to the dark rectangle of the Faraday cage.

Tariq’s entire focus was on the safety on the other side of the trap. It took tens of seconds for the Interceptor to notice the difference in the weight and tension of the shoe that it gripped and deduce that it was empty. The Interceptor’s three legs redeployed, it took a moment to find its quarry and restart its wobbly pursuit.

Tariq was only a few dozen meters from the cage. The Interceptor was closing again. The sound of the robot’s servos struggled against the extra labor of moving fast. It sounded like a machine wheezing, and the wheezing got louder and louder.

The Interceptor was closing.

Tariq pushed himself up the faux stairs of the trap. He heard the Interceptor’s gears whine as it made another swipe for his leg. He felt something brush his injured foot and send a buzz of pain up half his leg. Tariq lept for the overhang of the disguised van’s cargo hold. His whole leg cussed him out. The Interceptor tumbled behind him and was half way into the cage before it was able to slow down.

Tariq landed on his foot and instantly folded in pain. But the pain didn’t stop him from rolling out of the cage right before the spotter and her partner grabbed the rope to pull down the door of the trailer. The Interceptor was trapped in the Faraday cage and unable to contact anyone. The spotter slapped the side of the van, and the whole facade of the doorway fell over like a Hollywood prop as the van drove away.

Tariq lay on his back, his eyes staring at the slate black Chicago sky. His breath was still trying to catch up to him and the pain in his ankle was doing a solid eight bars to the rhythm of his heartbeat.

He’d done it. But instead of taking that victory lap and showin’ his tail, he just lay there and celebrated that he was free. Then again …

Tariq did not get up, and he only smiled a little as he shot his right hand towards God and all his two-steppin’ angels. The moon a smiling back at him.

Tariq sat with this foot up on the coffee table. It was wrapped and throbbing. It wasn’t broken but he’d sprained it good. Pops came in with ice and set it gently on Tariq’s ankle.

“How you feel?”

Tariq looked at his ankle as if it were a family member that’d disappointed him. He exhaled and shrugged his shoulders.

“I think it’ll be alright.” Of all of the scars and stings on his arms and legs, the ankle was the most plaintive.

“Carlton give you your money?”

Tarique looked at his phone without picking it up. He’d already checked.

“Kinda. He paid me a little now. He’ll get me the rest after he finishes selling the parts. He already has people lining up to buy so it should be soon.”

Pops looked at him with raised brows.

“He’s good for it, Pops.” Tarique tried to mask his own doubt.

“He better be.”

They sat on the couch. It was Saturday and this was the only time they had to be together. They had the whole morning but had nothing to say. Except every time Pops looked at Tariq, Pops smiled a little. Just a little. A glaze of pride.

Tariq turned on the TV. The news feed told so many stories. The mayor was explaining how disaster relief money from the government was not going to be used to repair the climate damage that had been done to the Southside’s shoreline but used to invest in businesses and promote tourism. There was a story about the CEO of BosDam explaining how their new collaboration with Boeing would produce military robots that would protect the lives of soldiers overseas. There was a human interest “feel good” story about a black boy who could jump over cars in a single leap. Even SUVs.

But in the whole thirty-minute cycle, there was not a single story about Tariq outrunning an Interceptor.

“See,” said Tarique with a cynical grin on his face, “They never talk about real heroes.”

Editor: Aigner Loren Wilson

First Reader: Jean McConnell

Copy Editors: Copy Editing Department

Accessibility: Accessibility Editors