Micah leans back in the chair, with that careless, cruel air that you can never tell if it’s a joke or a threat. The lamp’s flame lights up half his face, accentuating the scar that always seems to mock you. He’s smoking, of course he always smokes when he knows it gets under your skin.

“Again with this?” he says, blowing smoke into your face. “You’re like a damn bell, ringing and ringing the same old sound.”