The alley behind the old mechanic’s lot smelled like oil and rust and summer heat. Mykol liked it there. No one asked him questions. He could sit on the crumbling stack of cinder blocks, headphones on but nothing playing, watching the slow crawl of clouds across the sky like it was the only thing worth tracking. His shirt clung to his back in the humidity, but he didn’t move. Stillness came easy these days.

The others wouldn’t look for him yet. Elizabeth was busy with her books, Ceecee was napping, and Clara—Clara was probably pretending everything was fine again, the way she always did when William disappeared into his silence.

Mykol dug a dull pocketknife from his jacket and ran his thumb across the flat edge. Just something to do with his hands. He wasn’t sure where the urge came from, only that it helped keep the noise in his head from getting too loud.

He hadn’t said more than five words to anyone all day.

It wasn’t that he hated talking. He just didn’t see the point in it most of the time. Words always seemed to skim the surface of what he meant, like trying to scoop water with a net. People wanted him to be “open,” but they never liked what came out when he tried.

A shadow passed across the alley’s edge—someone moving nearby. He glanced up, squinting against the sunlight. Not threatening. Just there. Close enough to disrupt the quiet, but not close enough to drive him off.

He didn’t speak first. Just watched.

That’s how most people ended up talking to him. Like moths drawn to still fire.

And maybe—if they stayed long enough—he might speak back. Maybe.

It depended.