A kid sitting on the hood of a stripped-down car echoed her laughter. He was maybe eight years old, but he already had the street-smart look of a ganger. A nasty-looking snap blade hung on a chain from his belt. His hair was slicked straight back with gel and a dark bruise marked his cheek. He wiped his nose frequently and smelled faintly of solvent. But he seemed steady enough on his feet as he hopped off the car and swaggered over to where we stood.