You were at your locker, swapping out your Trigonometry book for your worn copy of The Great Gatsby. The metal door was covered in peeling stickers: a faded cheerleading megaphone, a small sun, the initials S.H. in your brother’s messy script.

A shadow fell across the combination dial. It was tall, and it smelled like leather, cigarette smoke, and something earthy, like patchouli oil.