A month’s rent in the worst apartment in New York: $1,150. I’m a bounty hunter, one of many in Manhattan, and I’m fighting to capture Martin Hamer before another hunter can.Īnyone who’s ever fallen on hard times will understand the nearly constant stream of numbers that run through my mind.

So, about once a week, the cops send out a message like this, a promise to pay anyone who can catch the criminal in question. The police are so busy these days with the increasing crime in the streets that they don’t have time to hunt for petty criminals on their own-petty criminals like Martin Hamer, who’s wanted for gambling on Warcross, stealing money, and allegedly selling drugs to fund his bets. Two days ago, I had gotten the following text message: I look down at my phone again, my mind returning to the hunt. But I started skipping classes after Dad died, and I dropped out entirely several years ago. This should have been my first year of college. Students coming home from school are easy to spot, their backpacks and fat headphones dotting the crowds. The air is thick with the smell of exhaust, and steam billows from an open vent nearby. The occasional scream of a traffic controller’s whistle sounds above the chaos. Cars jam the streets, a nonstop trail of brake lights and honking from here all the way to Times Square. The sky beyond the cut of skyscrapers is gray, turning grayer, and in a few hours this flurry of snow will become a steady fall. So, unless I can get my hands on $3,450, I’ll be homeless and in the streets by the end of the week. Translation: I’m almost three months behind on my rent. But this morning, I’d woken up to a yellow paper taped to the door of my apartment, its words printed in the largest font you can imagine.

Usually, I’m a nicer person than this-or, at least, I would have shouted an apology.

I glance over my shoulder to see him waving a fist at me through his open window. “Hey!” a driver yells as I maneuver past his car. My bright, rainbow-dyed hair whips across my face. The board is old and used, like everything else I own, its blue paint almost entirely scraped off to reveal cheap silver plastic underneath-but it’s not dead yet, and when I push my heel down harder, it finally responds, jerking me forward as I squeeze between two rows of cars. Then I slam my boot down on my electric skateboard. I shiver, tug my scarf up higher over my mouth, and wipe a few snowflakes from my lashes. It’s too damn cold of a day to be out on a hunt.

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