ARLO BATES WATCHED the nerdy kids disappear around the corner.

He didn’t move to follow. Didn’t move at all.

Instead, he kicked back against the fence and bobbed to the Lil Wayne track blaring through his earphones.

Moments later, a giant hand tapped his shoulder.

His brother, Duncan, looked a question at him.

With a sigh, Marlo paused his iPod and removed the buds from his ears.

“What, yo?” Marlo had to crane his neck upward to see his brother’s face.

Duncan said nothing. No surprise there. But Marlo understood.

“I don’t know, man.” Frustrated. “I ain’t never been down here, neither.”

Duncan frowned—which, for the big man, was practically a shout.

“What is this place, anyway?” Marlo turned to scrutinize the large stone building at their backs. “Some kinda white people church?”

Duncan folded his arms in a clear expression of impatience.

“You heard Pops.” Marlo spat in disgust. “Ain’t like this was my idea.”

Marlo stroked the Z-shaped scar on his cheek, an unconscious tell that he was considering something.

Finally, he pushed off the fence.

“Let’s see what’s inside real quick.” Marlo hitched his pants, then brushed pollen from his plain white tee. “I ain’t spending my whole damn afternoon on this shit.”

Wordlessly, Duncan followed Marlo up the steps.

“These youngins sure be pissing me off,” Marlo grumbled. “I should be tending my business, not wasting time down here with the damn tourists.”

Duncan didn’t comment, a moving, breathing statue come to life.

At the entrance Marlo tugged a door open. Paused. Peered into the lobby.

“Pops better know what he’s talking about.”

Marlo hated big buildings like this. Imposing. Official looking. They reminded him of the schools he’d attended before finally dropping out. Of the failed expectations, the humiliation of needing help but being too proud to ask.

“Better be right,” Marlo muttered before stepping inside, the giant shadow of his brother looming on his heels.