Belinda grabs my arm and yanks me down. We crouch at the side of the road, our gazes locked on Orson.
He’s partially hidden from the road by a cluster of saplings, his eyes trained on the approach from town. He stares straight ahead, straight past us ... straight through us?
The sun is beating down, warm and bright after the cold storage unit. I blink once, twice, and then rub fingers across my eyelids. There’s something odd about Orson, something I can’t quite place.
“Does he look different to you?” I whisper.
“Younger?” she says. I sense more than see Belinda take in his full measure. “Definitely younger, like our age. I hate to say it, but he’s actually kind of hot.”
“Ew.”
“In a retro kind of way. Look at him. Hello, it’s the 90s calling, and they want their stone-washed jeans bac
