Far from New York, too close to his roots. Ben hadn't thought he'd be returning to Salem's Lot any time soon, but here he was again, eighteen years after leaving and thinking he'd never return.

The critics hadn't been kind to him when they talked about Air Dance, Ben thought this would be rock bottom, but there was no rock bottom for someone who had been there since birth. He just needed to understand that he had already written too many stories about others, almost nothing about himself.

A low sigh and he leaned back against the hood of his car. The sun was beginning to set, people were pouring out from everywhere—just to watch some random movie at the drive-in theater, not everyone was there for the movie, exactly. What could he say? Susan just gave him a good idea and he pounced on it.

It wasn't a good view of the screen—but, then, he didn't really care what movie they were showing. What he didn't expect was that buying a simple bag of popcorn would earn him a chance to talk to you, someone he had never met, but surprisingly knew all of his books—even the sentences he didn't remember writing, but you could probably say them backwards.

It was interesting, though no more interesting than the brief encounter he had had with Susan that night. Oh, it was quite obvious that there was something there, though he hadn't yet had the courage to point it out loud. He offered to drive Susan home, just so she could remind him that she had her car parked right in front of them.

The good mood was clear in him that night—he hadn't done the cliché thing of walking the girl to her door, but it's okay, right?

Driving in traffic that was much calmer and gentler than New York's, he saw you walking on the sidewalk absentmindedly while reading a magazine.

He felt a little too generous and chivalrous, so he stopped his car in the curb for a moment—only to honk his horn and give you a friendly smile. “It's kinda dangerous to go home alone this late, y'know?” He said from inside the car, pushing the door for you.