“What a douchebag,” said Marisa, shaking her head. “Just using her for her body?”
“For her father,” said Bao. “He is, like you said, one of the most powerful men in Los Angeles. And now he thinks Omar saved his daughter’s life—that’s a pretty big foot in some very important doors.”
“You got your best friend back,” said Omar, ignoring Bao’s accusation. “We’re even.”
“And the Maldonado mafia?” asked Marisa. “You don’t think your family’s going to prison for their part in this?”
“I told you,” said Omar, “all of that evidence was destroyed. And the police aren’t likely to look for any more. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to visit my sister. She’s still in her coma.” He turned and walked away through the crowd.
An alert popped up in Marisa’s vision: a “friend of a patient” contact, updating her on Anja’s condition. She glanced at Sahara and Bao, seeing that they’d received the same thing; Bao’s, of course, had appeared on his phone. Marisa scanned through the message quickly, read that Anja was stable but sleeping, and sighed in relief.
“Good,” said Sahara. “Now I can go home and get some sleep.”
“Me too,” said Bao. “If I start walking now I can be home by midnight.”
“We’ll split an autocab,” said Sahara. “Marisa, you coming?”
“I’m going to visit Chuy first,” said Marisa. “See you tomorrow.”
“We’ll skip a few more days of practice,” said Sahara. “Rest up.”
“You’re still going to the tournament?” asked Bao.
“We’re going to lose,” said Marisa, “but we’re definitely going.”
“Winning isn’t everything,” Sahara said, and winked at Marisa. “I mean, winning is still most things, but the occasional awesome video is good, too, right?” She smiled. “Play crazy.”
“Play crazy,” said Marisa. “See you later.”
She left them in the waiting room, and walked through the halls toward the long-term care ward. Chuy was alone in his hospital bed, watching something on his djinni, and Marisa knocked on the open door to get his attention.
“Hello?” His eyes focused on her, and he smiled. “Mari, come in.” He was wrapped in bandages and tubes and wires, simultaneously treating and collecting data on his abdominal wound. “I’d get you a chair, but—”
“I can get my own chair,” she said, laughing at his helpless chivalry. She pulled a small seat to the side of his bed. “You okay?”
“It’s healing pretty quick,” he said. “Some minor organ damage, but this gene-bath they’ve got pumping through me is regrowing everything bien machin. They say I might be out in two days, and I promise I will pay Papi back—”
“Forget the money,” said Marisa. “Go to Mexico, get a real job, and that’s all the payment we need.”
“I . . .” He grimaced, looking guilty, and Marisa felt her heart sink. He spoke softly. “I’m not going to Mexico.”
“But you promised—”
“Do you know how many of my friends died today?” asked Chuy.
Marisa hardened her face, trying to look serious instead of heartbroken. “That’s why you need to leave.”
“Goyo was one of them,” said Chuy. “His little brother Memo is taking over. Do you know how I got shot last night?”
“By running with La Sesenta.”
“By jumping in front of Memo,” said Chuy, “and taking the bullet that was meant for him. The entire power structure is shaking up, and I saved the new leader’s life. I’m almost at the top now—I’ll be getting more money, and with less danger, than ever before. I can’t walk away from that.”
“Yes you can.”
“These are my brothers,” said Chuy, repeating his argument from before. “I won’t just walk away from them when life gets rough—that’s when we need to pull together even more.”
“But your family?” asked Marisa. “Who provides for them the next time you take a bullet for someone?”
“We’re looking out for all the widows,” said Chuy. “We take care of our own. And someday, god forbid, if I go down, they’ll take care of Adriana as well.”
“So what am I supposed to do?” asked Marisa. “Just . . . wonder all the time? Wonder if you’re going to live, or if Pati’s going to get more drugs at school, or if Calaca’s going to come back and try to shoot me again?”
“Calaca’s going to leave you alone,” said Chuy. “I’ve already seen to that. And as for you, you’re going to do what you do best, what you’ve always done your entire life: you’re going to help other people instead of yourself. It’s who you are.” He took her hand and squeezed it gently. “I think that makes you the best person I know.”
Marisa squeezed his hand back, feeling warmed by the words.
And ominously frigid at the same time.
TWENTY-SIX