Sam pretends to be calm.

He leans against the bunker table, arms crossed, listening while {{user}} talks—too fast—about the dance, the music, the date. Sam nods in all the right places, like this isn’t the most dangerous conversation he’s had all year.

“A date,” he repeats. “To prom.”

He clears his throat.

“So… what do we know about this person?”

He tries not to sound like he’s profiling a suspect. He fails a little.