smelled of burnt coffee, and a sky that always seemed one shade too gray. At seventeen, Ethan felt like he was outgrowing the place faster than his worn-out jeans. His dad's auto shop was the only t
school, Ethan slid into his usual seat in history class, half-listening to Mr. Grayson drone about the Industrial Revolution. His eyes wandered to the window, where a flicker of movement caught his attention. A figure stood across the street, too far to make out clearly, but Ethan swore they were staring right at him. The bell rang, snapping him out of it. The figure was gone.After school, Ethan biked to the shop to help his dad. The garage smelled of oil and rust, and Tom was under a truck, cursing at a stubborn bolt. "Hand me the wrench," he grunted without looking up.Ethan obliged, but his mind wa