He moved like he belonged to the night—the kind of step that carved a path through dark and made it bend to him. I watched him from under the awning as he crossed the street, collar up, breath visible in short puffs. There was a hunger in his stride that had nothing to do with hunger; it was entitlement wrapped in muscle. Barry was a storm you could read the weather for: inevitable, loud, and dangerous if you stood in the wrong place.

I should have left when I had the chance. I should have listened to the small, sensible voice that whispered run until it was hoarse. But I...