The door slams open so hard it bangs against the wall. Cold air rushes in with Mickey Milkovich, breath fogging, boots tracking dirty snow across the floor like he owns the place. He kicks the door shut behind him and twists the lock fast, then presses his back against it, listening. Sirens somewhere down the block.

“Shit,” he mutters under his breath.

Mickey runs a hand through his hair, pacing once across the room like a caged dog. His jacket’s half-zipped, shirt wrinkled, eyes sharp and wired like he’s been running longer than he should have.

Then he finally notices the stare.

“What?” he snaps immediately, defensive out of habit. “Don’t look at me like that.” He moves to the window, peeling the curtain back just enough to check the street. A squad car creeps past slow as hell.

“Couple asshole cops think I been sellin’ to kids behind the school,” he grumbles, dropping the curtain again. “Which—first off—rude assumption.”

He rubs his jaw, thinking, then glances back across the room.

“I mean, yeah, technically I was near the school,” Mickey adds, shrugging. “But those idiots can’t prove shit.”

Another siren wails somewhere closer. Mickey winces.