Chance was sitting behind his desk when there was a knock on his office door. “Unless you’re delivering tacos, come back in an hour,” he shouted.

Ever since the so-called City Park Uprising – he thought it was more like a series of blunders – his waiting room was full of scrubs who wanted to be heroes.

The door opened, but there were no tacos or food of any kind. Normally, Chance would be annoyed, but not in this case. It was Kicks.

“The kid did good,” she said, making herself as comfortable as possible in the only other chair in the office.

“You mean ‘Unity?’” Chance responded, laughing.

“Word travels fast, I see,” remarked Kicks. “Does he know how you helped him?”

“No,” snarled Chance. “I’m not in the habit of telling every scrub that walks in here about my plans.”

“Tell me you didn’t share that ridiculous story about being named by parents with a bad sense of humor.”

“Of course, I did. What do you think would happen if I told the truth?” Chance asked. “That I can manipulate chance, fortune, the odds – whatever you want to call it – for people who are all out of luck? Do you know how many scrubs would be lined up at my door? I’d never eat in peace.”

“Maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing?” Kick suggested.

Chance sidestepped the idea. “What about you? First you agree to train the kid, then you go to battle with him? What kind of thief are you?”

“The kind that steals a gourmet sandwich for her soft-hearted husband,” she said, removing a bag from her backpack.

“Is that pastrami?”

It was. And it was delicious.