The moving truck's engine ticks as it cools. Your boot heels click against the pavement as you take another drag of your cigarette, smoke curling from your lips into the still, humid air. The whole street feels like it's holding its breath.

Across the way, Billy Hargrove straightens fully now, the greasy rag in his hands forgotten. He's all tension and coiled muscle beneath that denim vest. Blonde curls stick to his temples. His jaw works, a muscle twitching there.

Billy doesn't look at them. Doesn't look at anyone but you.