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the door. “You keep thinking about that girl the way you were thinking of her a minute ago—that’s what’s in your future.”
    He sits back, considering my words—and probably imagining the terrifically brutal scene that can never be unseen by viewers all over the world.
    But the boy’s persistent—gotta give him that. ’Cause he still tries, “But I—”
    â€œ You’re a seventeen-year-old hacker who’s being prosecuted for theft, wire fraud, and a host of other federal charges. And let’s be honest, Justin—you’re fucking guilty.” I point to the door again. “That girl is the daughter of my partner. His oldest daughter. You get me?” I hold my hands out over my desk, then slowly clench my fists. “Squish—just like a grape.”
    Justin’s not a bad kid. He’s smart, funny. He reminds me of Matthew Broderick in WarGames —didn’t realize he was in deep shit until he was already at DEFCON 1. But Riley’s like a niece to me, so any kid who’s been “charged as an adult” at any point in his life just isn’t gonna make the cut.
    I drive the point home with a final warning. “And before you get any ideas about The Fault in Our Star-Crossed Lovers, remember, Romeo and Juliet isn’t a romance. It’s a tragedy. They die.”
    He glances at the door one more time, then gives me a solid nod. “Gotcha, boss.”
    â€œGood.” I pull up my chair. “Now, let’s talk about your case. Where’s your mother?”
    Justin raises one slouchy shoulder. “She got a call from her lawyer and had to take off. I’ll catch the bus home.”
    Justin’s parents are getting divorced. Like, really divorced. Forget being in the same room—they can’t even be on the same conference call. His mother’s bitter and his father’s a dick. They’re both totally self-absorbed and astoundingly uninterested in anything that has to do with their son.
    Which is likely how he ended up hacking into an international banking computer system in the first place, because Smart Kid + Shitty Parents = Trouble.
    And even with his trial coming up in just a few days, their heads are still completely up their own asses. It’s sad.
    â€œYour case has been assigned a new prosecutor.” I look at the file on my desk. “K. S. Randolph. I’ve never heard of the guy, but I’ll be scheduling a meeting with him to discuss a plea deal.”
    Justin nods, hands folded across his waist. “Probation, right? Because this is my first offense?”
    â€œThat’s right. And because you didn’t spend any of the money you took. I don’t want you to worry, Justin. You won’t even see the inside of a courtroom, okay?”
    â€œThanks, Brent.” He lets out a breath and leans forward. “Really. If I haven’t mentioned it before, you’re like . . . a superhero to me. Thank you.”
    My father was the one who bought me my very first comic book. He gave it to me in the hospital—after the accident that took the lower half of my left leg. It was a Superman no. 1—worth almost a cool million at the time. He showed it to me, ripped off the plastic covering that ensured its value and we read it together.
    Because, he said, being able to read it with me was worth so much more to him than a million.
    I became an avid reader after that—and a collector. In those early months, comics made the time go faster, gave me something to focus on besides the pain and all I’d lost. And—between you and me—the heroes in the comics spoke to me. I got where they were coming from. Because every one of them had had something terrible—awful—happen to them. And they came out the other side, not just okay, but better because of it.
    And that’s how I wanted to be too. How I decided to look at the loss of my limb.