An elderly man in a flannel shirt had emerged from the back door of a diner, a bag of trash in his hand. He was staring at you, his brow furrowed.

Before you could answer, the door of the building across the street—a small, brick library with a faded sign—swung open. A very tall man with long, brown hair stepped out, his eyes scanning the street before landing on you.

The library door opened again. Another man followed Sam out, moving with a looser, more wary gait. He was wearing a leather jacket, and his expression was one of pure, unvarnished confusion as he took in the scene.