But it wouldn’t affect him.

His long-term plan was to live without a vehicle. Fuel wouldn’t last forever. He’d stashed a dirt bike to use less fuel and a regular bike for when it was appropriate. He’d briefly considered stealing a horse, but horses needed constant care. They couldn’t be hidden indefinitely in a shed. Instead he studied horses and believed he could raise livestock if he found himself in a future without power.

It would happen one day.

He had no doubts.

His arms started to shake and his anxiety spiked as he imagined that future world. His brain cast about for something to occupy and calm his mind. He mentally reviewed how to build a hutch for chickens to protect them from predators. He felt his breathing slow and his shakes recede. It was important. He couldn’t forget. Today the bombs could drop that would change their world forever. He wouldn’t be caught with his pants down.

When he was younger he’d recite the multiplication table when the anxiety hit. As he got older he’d begun to choose useful mental projects to focus his brain. The chicken coop. How to lay out a leach field. How to make cheese.

Ahead the man signaled and turned into the parking lot at his office.

He continued past, relieved that his quarry had made it to work safely for another day. Not that his job wasn’t without dangers. The man often came in contact with unsavory elements. It was how he’d met Micah.

He’d been grouped with the unsavory elements and been determined to prove to the man that he wasn’t one of them.

The man had seen he was different and accepted him.

He’d never felt that level of acceptance before, and the man had become a hero in his eyes. Most people wanted to change him. Medicate him. Send him to new doctors. Talk about him.

He just needed to be left alone. He could take care of himself.

But this man needed someone to look out for him. He was too caught up in his own world to watch over his shoulder. So Micah did it for him. Twenty-four-seven.

It’d been enlightening. A glimpse into a very private life. He’d seen things he shouldn’t have seen, learned secrets, and felt his power swell with the new knowledge. It’d fueled his desire to keep watching.

Some of his doctors would have told him the behavior was unhealthy. That he shouldn’t fixate on other people. But he was helping, doing good, being the superhero. Everyone knows superheroes are misunderstood. They break the law only when it’s for the good of the people. If he could protect this one important life, then it was all worth it.

He glanced at the time and knew where he’d find his friends.

Friends.

He knew they weren’t true friends. They listened to him and allowed him to hang around only because he shared his pot and cigarettes. He considered it a small price to pay to tap into their knowledge. Street kids were skilled at hiding and seeing things regular people did not. Need bread? They know which bakery window has a broken lock. Need fuel? They know where extra tanks of every type of fuel are stored in the city. Need sex? Need drugs? Need a weapon? They had the connections to get it all.

He siphoned their knowledge and they pretended to listen to his warnings about the future. He knew when his message reached some of them. Usually the females. They didn’t like the thought of an uncertain future and would latch on to whoever they thought would protect them. Some asked to see the place he’d prepared for an uncertain future, but he never took anyone there. People steal. People lie. People kill to get what they think they need. One look at his supplies and he’d be a marked man.

Several of the females had offered him sex in exchange for his protection. He’d refused. He had no need for sex. Another curiosity his doctors liked to explore and offered to medicate. Why fix something that didn’t bother him? To his horror they’d discussed it with his mother, along with his other treatments.

He’d raged when she’d brought it up.

She hadn’t mentioned it again.

He parked at a MAX station and changed his shoes and coat, throwing the others in his trunk. He preferred to wear the Converse with the holes when he hung out with the street kids. He kept a ratty camouflage-print coat in his car. It was thick and warm but stank to high hell. They were articles he knew people from the street wouldn’t try to steal from him.

Even if they did, he was prepared. He was never without a weapon handy.

It was important to dress and look like the other street kids. He’d studied them for a long time before making the subtle changes to fit in. In the end they’d approached him. He’d watched long enough to see what caught their interest. For several days he’d hung out near them with his cigarettes always handy, acting as if he didn’t have anywhere else to go and ignoring their stares. Curiosity had driven them his way. Pot and cigarettes kept them coming back.

They wanted to know where he slept at night, but he never told them. He lied, saying that he slept on a friend’s couch at night but had to be out of the apartment during the day. If they found out he went home to his mother’s house, they’d never speak to him again. He was careful to maintain his façade. When he needed his bed, he took the light rail, hopping off and on at multiple MAX stops, watching for followers, but they never tried to follow him. When he finally got off at the stop where he’d parked his car, he’d cut through the lot and circle the block, watching to see if he was followed. He didn’t go back to his car until he was positive he was alone.

Good habits.

He yanked a filthy cap onto his head and headed toward the MAX stop to wait for the train. The light rail system would speed him into the heart of the city, where he’d vanish for a few hours and hang with his friends. He’d be back in time to wait outside the man’s office building and follow him home.