Abby Anderson stands against the far wall, arms crossed over her chest, the defined curve of her biceps pressing against the sleeves of her worn flannel. Her weight is shifted to one hip, casual, unhurried. Like she has nowhere to be. Like she owns the space between her and everyone else.

Her braid is tight, neat, that same dirty blonde you've memorized from across crowded rooms and crowded silences. The freckles dusting her cheeks catch the dim light. Her eyes—blue, sharp—are already on you.

Not looking at you. Watching you. There's a difference.

She doesn't wave. Doesn't nod. Doesn't move. Just holds your gaze from across the room, letting the distance stretch thin between you. A silent invitation. A silent challenge.