Excerpt from Anger Is a Gift by Mark Oshiro, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

"Hey, I don't mean to interrupt your little lovefest," Esperanza said, coming up to the two of them, "but Moss … we need to be careful getting off at this station."

"Why?" Javier said.

Esperanza looked from Javier to Moss, and he saw the worry flit across her face. The expression said it all. Cops, he thought. There must be cops. How does she know?

"Is something happening?" Javier rose and walked over to the windows, then whistled, and then Moss stood slowly.

"Is it what I think it is?"

She nodded. "You gonna be okay? I'll leave the station in front of you if you want."

Moss took a deep breath. "Lemme see how bad it is," he said, and crossed the aisle, putting his face close to the windows. He tried to peer toward the front of the train as it approached the West Oakland station, but the angle was wrong. He could see his reflection better than anything outside the train, so he pressed his hands against the glass to block out the light from inside the car.

That's when he saw them, the red and blue bolts of light, and that's when the dread filled him, overflowed, squeezed his heart to dust. His hands started to sweat, and Moss backed away from the windows, nearly tripping over Esperanza. She grabbed his right arm to steady him as he stumbled.

"What is it?" Javier said. There it was, on his face. Worry. Confusion.

"Nothing," Moss said. "It's okay."

"That's a lot of cops," Javier said, walking over to the window and shielding his own eyes as Moss had done. "Damn. What happened to the rally?"

The train began to slow down as it approached the station, and Moss sat down in the seat nearest the door, taking slow, deliberate breaths. His therapist had taught him this technique, for whenever Moss felt his anxiety getting the best of him. All over some lights, Moss thought. Just red and blue lights. That's all they are.

He knew this. It didn't matter.

The train came to a smooth stop at the West Oakland station. The platform was mostly empty, a relief. It meant a quicker exit, and that was the only hope Moss allowed himself. He stood next to Esperanza, who waited by the closest set of doors. "I'm here," she said, her hand in his. "We'll just put our heads down and get out of the station as quick as we can. That okay with you?"

He nodded to her, his heart in his throat. Moss wished he could reach inside of his brain and excise the part of it that tormented him. Instead, he had to deal with it every day. He let go of Esperanza and fetched his bike, wishing he hadn't brought it, certain it would get in the way. They waited. And waited. And waited.

But the doors did not open, and a creeping anticipation snuck in. What if they were stuck here? What if the cops were coming up into the station? The sweat along his hairline just seemed to appear; Moss couldn't remember it being there before.

"You okay?" Esperanza asked.

"Yeah," he said, his voice soft, gripped in the fear of the unknown. "Just wanna get off the train."

Moss caught sight of Javier, who was staring at the two of them. He saw it then, written all over him: pity. It's starting again, Moss thought.

The orange light above the doors flashed, followed by a short chime, and then the doors slid open. Despite the small crowd, a young man rushed into the train car, promptly dumping half of his drink on Javier's shirt. "Hey, what the hell?" Javier shouted, but the guy didn't even look back.

"Well, that was awful," said Javier, who was brushing off the front of his white T-shirt. They joined him on the platform.

"You could always call it modern art," said Esperanza.

Javier chuckled. "I like her, Moss. I can see why y'all are friends."

"He's winning me over," Esperanza said. "I hope you two exchanged numbers already. We should go, Moss."

Excerpted from Anger Is a Gift by Mark Oshiro. Copyright © 2018 by Mark Oshiro. Excerpted by permission of Tor Books. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.