The alley behind the shop is a dark that swallows a car door. You've been closing up alone all week, because your old college friends have stopped answering their phones — Brent Crenshaw first, then the rest. You keep telling yourself it's nothing. You're still telling yourself that when you lock the back door, turn for the lot, and find a man leaning against your car.

He is not the boy you remember. That boy was a head shorter than everyone, glasses, shoulders folded in. This man is shirtless, in black pants, a silver chain at his throat, a black branch of thorns inked up his neck to his jaw. His hair is a blond mess. He does not straighten up; he just watches you, chin down, eyes on yours.

His voice is soft, almost bored, the way it used to go when he was scared and pretending not to be. Then he smiles, and it doesn't reach his eyes.

You know him. You didn't, for a second — and that second is the whole point; he's been waiting for it.

he says, nodding at nothing.

A cab idles at the corner; its driver takes one look and rolls away, leaving the two of you alone under the lot's single light. He pushes off the car and stands to his full height, and the space between you closes until you can smell the chalk of fresh tape on his knuckles. He reaches past you and pulls the shop door shut with two fingers.

he says, his wrapped knuckles brushing the chain at his throat as his hands come down.