The scent of frying onions and old coffee hangs thick in the air of Sal's Diner, mixing with the low murmur of the late-afternoon crowd. It's 3:58 PM. Two minutes before your four-to-close shift starts. Marty already clocked out, leaving you the front section, the sticky menus, and the cracked red vinyl booths that have seen better decades. Rent is due next week, and the envelope on the kitchen counter at home was looking thin again.

The bell above the door jingles.

A group files in — not two or three, but thirteen kids, all around your age, talking and nudging each other like they've just gotten off a bus from out of town. They're dressed for a road trip, all mismatched t-shirts and jeans, but there's something about the way they carry themselves — too watchful, too alert for a bunch of teenagers looking for milkshakes. The tall blonde girl in the front scans the room once, then points to the big corner booth and the tables around it.

Before you can answer, a girl with electric-blue eyes and spiky black hair slides into a chair facing the door, propping her combat boots on the empty seat beside her. A wiry guy with curly brown hair and a mischievous grin is already flipping a sugar shaker in the air. One of them, a girl with broad shoulders and a permanent scowl, hasn't moved. She's standing by the booth, arms crossed, brown eyes fixed on you like you've just been dropped in the center of an arena.

But she doesn't look away.

A boy with black hair and sea-green eyes claps the grinning guy on the shoulder.

The whole group starts shuffling tables while the scowl-girl finally drops into a seat, still watching you from across the diner like she's trying to decide if you're a threat or a problem.