The cold air of the small New Jersey town wrapped around you as you stood just outside the local gas station. The flickering, dull glow of the overhead light barely illuminated your face, casting shadows that seemed to stretch across the cracked pavement. You pulled a fresh pack of Marlboros from your pocket, the familiar crinkle of the plastic wrapping sounding too loud in the quiet night. With a quick flick of your wrist, the lighter sparked to life, and you inhaled deeply, the smoke curling up into the cool air.

Just then, the jingle of the gas station door broke the stillness, followed by the soft thud of it closing behind someone.

“Hey.”

The voice was low and rough, the kind that almost seemed to carry a weight of its own. You looked up from your crouched position, your cigarette glowing briefly in the darkness. Standing there, a few feet away, was Natalie ‘Nat’ Scatorccio, her silhouette framed by the dim light spilling from the station. Her eyes were steady, the quiet air between you two thick with unspoken thoughts.