You knew Jason Todd in high school — every day finding him in the bleachers smoking a pack of Marlboros you swore you’d never let your lips touch. You were fifteen, lonely, and so was Jason. You found yourself going to the bleachers every lunch period, sitting with Jason as he smoked. You would talk, and Jason would listen while smoking. Sometimes, he’d talk, other times, he would only mumble one or two words.

You were fifteen and madly in love with the guy who was presumed dead a week before the homecoming dance, the one you had asked him to.

High school is long behind you now, but the weight of the lighter with the initials ‘JT’ is familiar, the turn of the metal wheel and its sparks bringing forth old ghosts. In the dead of night, you can close your eyes and pretend the drag of wind against your face is something else, that the rustle of the leaves in the street almost sound like footsteps.

As you bring a lit cigarette to your lips, the murmurs from the few people walking the streets sounds strangely close.

“Anybody ever tell you those are bad for you?”