“We’re not here to hurt you,” said the girl. She was maybe fifteen, with braids tied back and a notebook tucked under her arm. “I’m Jori. That’s Trey.” She pointed to the third, who gave a short, silent nod. “We call ourselves the Blackboy Additionz.”

Leo almost laughed. “Additionz? Like math?”

The rain hadn't stopped for three days, but on the fourth morning, the sun cracked the gray sky open like an egg. That was when the Additionz found Leo.

The Additionz didn’t run a shelter. They ran a current. They knew which dumpsters behind which restaurants gave up hot food at midnight. They knew which cops turned a blind eye and which ones needed to be avoided in threes. They fixed shoes with melted rubber from tires. They taught each other to read using a stolen Kindle and a broken streetlight that flickered on for exactly forty-seven minutes each night.

The Additionz never turned anyone away. That was the rule. No tests. No prayers. No promises except one: You add to us, we add to you.

“We don’t do gangs,” Dezi said, stepping forward.

“Then what do you do?”