Then she laughed. A real, surprised laugh.

But she pulled the pin.

“Marcus?”

Given Marcus’s track record, a “surprise” could mean anything from a new set of tires to a live raccoon in a box. But Zaawaadi, wrapped in an oversized hoodie and fuzzy slippers, shuffled toward the garage door, already bracing herself.

He popped out from behind a storage shelf, phone out, cackling . Tears streamed down his face. “Oh my god—your face —I got it, I got the whole thing!”

“You’re dead,” she said, still giggling. “You are so dead.”

The horn kept blasting.

“MARCUS!” she yelled over the din.

“And you owe me a prank,” he replied. “I expect greatness.”

Zaawaadi turned her head, a slow, dangerous smile spreading across her face. “Oh, you’ll get greatness.”

Then she saw it. Taped to the hood of the car was a small, unassuming silver canister. Next to it, a sticky note: “Pull the pin.”

Silence. The garage smelled of motor oil and old carpet. Marcus’s car sat in the middle, hood open, tools scattered.