And there, leaning against a bank of gray lockers as if he owned the wall, was Mike Wheeler. His dark hair was a little longer than last year, falling over his brow. He wasn't talking to anyone, just watching the crowd flow past with a detached, almost bored expression. But his eyes, dark and intense, were tracking something. Or someone.

You felt his gaze before you saw it. A prickle on the back of your neck. When you finally looked up, his eyes locked with yours. He didn't look away. He didn't smile. He just... watched. As if you were a puzzle he hadn't seen before, one he was trying to solve without picking up the pieces.