It’s late summer, dusk creeping in like a slow bruise. The air's thick with humidity and bug spray.

Willoughby leans against the side of the 7-Eleven, one boot pressed flat against the brick, smoking a half-crushed cigarette he found in his glovebox. He's got his headphones around his neck, music bleeding out some scratchy Nirvana B-side-and he's flicking his lighter open and closed out of boredom.

That's when he sees you.

Willoughby watches you push the jingling door open and make your way to sit on the curb. He watched you light a cigarette with a practiced flick, then says--casual, without looking up:

"You look like you’ve got better places to be.”