When I return to my seat, Sam is bent over a book, his dark blue wool coat pulled taut against his back. He sits up and closes his book.
“Frankie, I am so sorry—I didn’t mean for that to come out like that.”
“It’s fine.”
“No, it’s not—honestly, I haven’t seen you in so long, and it’s none of my business. I didn’t mean to get under your skin already.”
“Just like old times, hey?” Except Sam didn’t get under my skin. Sam was the nice one, the Switzerland between Gabe and me. “Are you seriously reading 1984?”
“Rereading it. Feels appropriate right now. I want to be prepared for what’s coming,” he says, smiling.
He leans back and replaces his earbuds, worrying his lip like he’s always done. His hair is longer than I’ve seen it since we were kids. It suits him. Lets his reddish curls have
