Mom blamed my and Logan's relationship on the stress of recovering from an ACL tear in time for the regional meet. I was desperate for an escape and found one in Logan.

That was partly true. The real credit was due to the three ounces of Stir-fry I'd stolen.

Turtles pushed and clawed through two inches of murky water, sloshed about between bonsais and knock-off handbags. Two minutes ago, my target had stopped peddling to witness the end of a chess match held in the warming shadows of Boston's paifang gate.

I'd spent the same amount of time pretending to talk on the phone about my impending PT session, all the while side-eying his wares. Each container held over a dozen illegal red-eared sliders, the largest no wider than a baseball.

A collective gasp.

The vendor balanced on the shoulders of a man in front.

Adrenaline surged through me. I plunged my hand into the water. Tiny limbs struggled against my palm; then they tussled with my windbreaker's pocket and it was done and I limped out of Chinatown. Two weeks of RICE (Rest, Ice, Compression, and Elevation) be damned. This was physical therapy.

Calloused fingers gripped my elbow.

Eighty degrees at seven am and my veins froze solid.

"What are you, seven? Only kids swipe turtles off Beach Street."

I turned toward my captor, a blue-eyed man taller and paler than me. Like an old movie lifeguard, he wore zinc oxide sunscreen in a gooey patch on his nose. A stressed Celtics tee and pair of basketball shorts completed the look. Water beaded an iced coffee in his left hand.

This guy clearly wasn't a cop, and, sparing a glance at Chinatown's magnificent stone lion guardians, not in cahoots with the oblivious vendor, either. I wrenched my arm free.

"I'll scream," I warned. "Stop following me."

Hands and coffee up, he stepped back and flashed a smile, the artificially whitened kind that us prep kids bore after spending our childhoods dragged along to art galas and exhibition parties where our parents compared us like Thoroughbreds for show. I ran through a mental list of benefactor's sons at the Colby Society social, the last one I'd attended before surgery, but he wasn't familiar.

I clamped one hand over my pocket, the other on my hip, and squinted through the sunlight at him. "Are you turning me in?"

He took a sip of coffee. "It's a turtle. What do they go for, like two bucks?"

Knotted muscles in my back relaxed. "Around that," I said.

His blue eyes fell on my dripping pocket. "Those things are swimming in salmonella, you know. Karma's gonna catch you tonight."

I readjusted my headband, tucking stray, sweaty bangs back where they belonged. "Unlike a seven year old, I'm not planning on licking it."

The edges of his lips deepened into a grin. "Look, I'm not into judging someone's lifestyle choices, but don't say I didn't warn you."

"What's your name?" I asked.

"Logan."

"You know what I love about living in a city, Logan?" In the distance the chess match carried on with my victim none the wiser that his cart was a couple ounces lighter. "Everyone minds their own business." I dropped my bag and held my breath as my left knee creaked, but other than a spot of stiffness, it bent fine. "Cover for me."

He nearly dropped his coffee. "What? Why?"

I placed a glass bowl and its hole-studded lid onto the pavement. Grabbing my water bottle, I untwisted the cap. "I've got an empty pyrex to transfer him into. I was gonna wait until I got on the T, but you're making me nervous."

"Oh. Pardon me." He moved closer, more curious than helpful, I thought.

"Shut up." I whacked his calf. Solid. Out of the corner of my eye I revisited his shirt; that worn green tee hid a decent build. I'd have enjoyed seeing it in another time and place, but by the property of transference, I reasoned I already had. Kiss one jock and you've kissed them all, and after Josh I knew I'd made out with one too many.

Logan rubbed his leg, more for show than actual pain; my teasing swat might've knocked the wind out of a gnat. "Does your mother know you're a petty thief?" he asked.

"She wouldn't frown on saving a life from inhumane conditions." My turtle plipped into his temporary home. I placed his bowl at the bottom of my bag, keeping it level, and stood.

Logan slung a backpack over his shoulder. Copper sunbeams bounced off a keychain clipped to the zipper. University of Pentworth.

"Aw, crap," I groaned. After leaving high school on a low note, the last thing I needed was to be known as a thief on a tight-knit college campus. "Can we forget this ever happened?"

His laugh was warm. "Two strangers meeting in a big city; I thought that was implied."

"We're not talking New York here," I muttered. "This is Boston. So if it's settled, can you agree to say we never met?"

He shrugged. "You're the brains behind this operation."

"Thanks." I should have left it at that and stormed off to the subway, but curiosity reached out and grabbed his arm. "Don't you want to know why?"

His blue eyes met mine, sharpened by a frown. "You do realize that the more you talk, the harder you'll be to forget?"

"Or the more you'll want to," I countered.

His frown steadied. "Whenever we next clash, and we will if you're this concerned, I'll find out why. Until then, I'm minding my own business."

"Smooth," I said, sneaking a once-over. Lean, lean body. Damp hair. A faint scent of chlorine. "Using my own line against me."

"You didn't make it hard." With a contented smile he waved. "Catch you later, Stranger."

"You're a swimmer there, aren't you? At Pentworth."

The hand fell. His eyebrows rose. "How'd you know?"

"You reek." Careful to support my turtle, I tapped his key chain. "And you're a Painted Dog. Competition is in our blood."

Head tilted, he squinted hard at my face. "No, I don't recall you on campus."

"I haven't moved in yet."

"Incoming freshman?" I nodded. He clasped my shoulder and smiled. "I look forward to reintroducing myself."

The chess match had ended. As the small crowd dispersed and the vendor returned to his wares, my feet turned toward the subway entrance. "Thanks for not turning me in," I said.

"Will you answer one question for me?"

Against my better judgment, I nodded. "Shoot."

He tapped a fresh shaven chin. "Your secret is safe with me, but if I'm sworn to never speak of this again, I actually do want to know why you stole the turtle."

A smile played on my lips. I hugged my plundered pet. "New knee, new life. Someone struggling more than I do deserves one, too."

That night Stir-fry adjusted to his new tank and my stomach adjusted to its first official case of food poisoning. We had sushi leftover in the fridge. I smuggled that out of the kitchen, flushed it down the toilet and told Mom I forgot to check the sell by date before eating it.

*

True to his word, Logan never told anyone. He had, however, saved his own part of the story for the eve of our six month anniversary.

Logan stretched across our fleece blanket as the weekend concert series kicked off. With a faked yawn he wrapped an arm around my shoulders and pulled my head to his lips.

"Do you remember how we met?" he asked. His mouth located the curve of my neck.

"The orientation story we tell our parents?"

"The real one." He nibbled my ear. My face burned as red as the sunset we watched. "I have a confession."

"What?" My gasp wasn't from surprise.

He leaned back, all mischief and gaiety. "When you snatched the turtle I slipped the vendor's partner five bucks."