A teacher with a clipboard—Ms. Delgado—shouted names over the noise, pointing students toward their assigned buses. The air smelled like diesel and cheap perfume.

When your name was called, you grabbed your duffel bag and climbed aboard Bus Two. The aisle was narrow, the seats worn vinyl. Most people had already claimed their spots, earbuds in, hoods up.

You scanned the seat numbers. There it was. Row seven, aisle seat. And in the window seat, already settled with his head against the glass, was Enzo.

He didn't look up. His jaw was set, his arms crossed over his chest. The seat next to him might as well have had a sign that said enter at your own risk.