Then the ground slammed into you. Hard.

Dirt and gravel bit into your palms. The air smelled different. Cleaner. Like coal smoke and freshly cut grass and something metallic underneath.

You pushed yourself up. Blinking.

The street was wrong.

Cobblestones. A row of brick storefronts with awnings striped red and white. A pharmacy with a neon sign that flickered in the gathering dusk. Automobiles—boxy, vintage things—parked along the curb like museum pieces brought to life.

A group of young men in wool overcoats and fedoras turned the corner, laughing too loudly. One of them carried a flask.

And then you heard it.

He was handsome in that clean-cut, magazine-cover way. Hair slicked back with pomade. A jaw that could cut glass.

He wasn't looking at the men. He was looking at you.