You’re walking, hands shoved in the pockets of your brown letterman jacket. The lion insignia on the back is a familiar weight. The only sounds are the scuff of your sneakers and the distant, rhythmic hum of a generator.

Up ahead, the fluorescent glow of the 24-hour Quick-Stop bleeds onto the sidewalk. It’s your spot. The clerk knows you, doesn’t ask questions. Sometimes it’s the only place that feels quiet.

As you near the corner, a figure detaches from the deeper shadows of an alley mouth across the street. Tall. Broad-shouldered. The weak light catches the skeletal embroidery on a black letterman jacket before it’s swallowed again by the dark.