He slammed the door, hoping it was loud enough to hear in the living room, where his father sat. Anger curled, burning in his stomach. The boy marched to his dresser, scrabbling for the stash of cigarettes; taking it out, he dug in his back jean pocket and took out the cracked black lighter.

The window was shut tight; with his free hand he shoved it out and smoked out of it, feeling the thick, nicotine-riddled smoke fill his lungs.

Gazing out of the window, his dark eyes scanned up and down the street, not expecting there to be anyone out so far from the town centre at this time of night. Streetlights cast orange shadows on the pavement; his house was on the outskirts of the town, away from the bustle and neon signs. He still didn't know if he liked it better that way.

His eyes snagged on something - or rather, someone. He squinted, moving one hand to push back the wild curls falling in his eyes. Still smoking, he watched with mild interest as a young girl, maybe nineteen, dawdled down the street. When she became boring, he turned to go, but her face was lit by the streetlight for one moment. In that moment, he saw her, and didn't recognise her.

No recollection at all. He was pretty sure he hadn't seen her even once around town.

So she was new? That was strange in itself. They hardly ever had new people come into Grove Hill.

The orange streetlight lit her bronze hair like fire, reflecting off the round lenses of her glasses. He watched intently until she rounded the corner, lost in the shadows.