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hadn’t had any of those things when he’d arrived.
    He could have tried to rent a room somewhere. Then he would have just needed money and a convincing lie. But privacy was important to Matt. He wanted a fresh start. Mainly because he was being hunted. Well, he was pretty sure he was being hunted anyway. His family wasn’t going to give up on him that easily.
    Thug Guy swept aside a couple of movie cases and a little pyramid made out of diet cola cans. He did this with two quick flicks of his hand like he was dusting away crumbs or lint. He made enough room to peek behind the TV.
    “Oh! Here we go. It is . . . uh . . . rat’s nest . . . back here.” English may not have been Thug Guy’s first language. “Too many cables. Is fire hazard.”
    He reached behind the TV and came up with a power strip. Every plug was filled. Matt didn’t even think he had that many things to plug in. Thug Guy gave it a hard yank. The power strip came free. Then the TV hit the floor with an unmistakable crack .
    “Dude! I just got that!” Matt blurted it out before he could stop himself.
    “Maybe is not best thing to tell me right now?”
    When Matt had moved into the apartment, he had unpacked in about fifteen minutes. He’d only had a duffel bag and a tiny suitcase with wheels, the kind that can fit above your seat on an airplane. One bag held his clothes; the other held everything he wanted to remember from his past. The TV was a new purchase but not one of many. He had actually bought it using a credit plan through the electronics store. His new identity had great credit. But after paying for that identity and a few months’ rent, his loan money was pretty much gone.
    Matt clenched his teeth when the blender blades started spinning. He never liked that whizzing sound. It reminded him of the dentist. He tried to avoid the dentist, and he had only ever used the blender once.
    “What’s going in there? Not my hands, right? I need my hands or I can’t get your money back.” Matt couldn’t stop talking. “I need my feet, too.”
    “You don’t need . . .  uh . . .  junk?” Thug Guy said.
    Matt looked down at his crotch. “I need my junk.” He reconsidered. “Okay, take a foot. Or my hand.”
    Thug Guy had zip-tied Matt at the elbows so his forearms were still free. Matt thought to himself and made a fist with his left hand. He pumped it back and forth a few times. He was right-handed for most things, but late at night in front of his laptop, he needed his left hand free. He nodded and clarified. “Wait, take my right hand.”
    Thug Guy responded by dropping two objects onto the table, one on either side of the blender. The first was a comic book. It had been on display next to the TV. Sandman , issue one. The cover was in perfect condition except for the silver pen mark where the author scribbled his name. The author had also put a strange little doodle underneath his signature that looked like some kind of ancient symbol. The second object was a tiny alien encased in plastic. Boba Fett looked up at him from a slightly yellowed blister pack. This was the proud Boba Fett from The Empire Strikes Back , not the comic relief version from Return of the Jedi .
    “Choose.”
    Matt stiffened. “Oh! Hardball!”
    Thug Guy picked up the blister pack and read the package carefully. He was mouthing the words to himself. Then he asked, “What is Bo . . . ba . . . Fett?”
    Matt didn’t realize he was holding his breath until he let it out to answer. “Well, he’s a bounty hunter. Technically he’s a clone from—”
    Then Thug Guy peeled open the pack to get a closer look.
    Matt gave a high-pitched screech and almost tipped himself over. “That was mint!” He let out a sigh and hung his head in despair. “Fine, do that one. Worthless now .”
    Sandman issue one disappeared amid frantic whirring sounds and a poof of confetti.
    Matt lifted his head. His world didn’t make sense anymore. “But . . . but Neil Gaiman signed