All I saw was silver: in the lightning, in the waterspouts, in the sand. The stillness between stars.

“Paul?”

He jumped.

West studied the tension of muscles, hardening of jawline, narrowing of brow. Eyes lost somewhere between green and gray and mud went to one, went to other, went to one. Even in shadow, he saw the boy’s nose was sunburned.

“Eri—?”

“No.” She bent, extended her hand. Shake. “Benton. Hope. And you’re Paul?”

“Yeah.” Something crawled behind his eyes. Heartbeat and suspicion. Names of people and places and scents and tastes; this was…. This was. “Have we met?”

“No…” Benton looked to West.

“What do you want?” He stood; he brushed sand from cargo shorts filled with bottlecaps and cigarettes, golden discount cards to the strip’s most popular clubs. “I don’t have any money, and I’m not into—”

“We’re not here to hurt you. We’re just—”

“Spring break?”

“No.” West regarded the thousands amidst light and sound behind them. There was such stillness in the impending storm. “We’re here for you.”

The author stepped back. “I don’t know you.”

“You do, though.”

“I’ve never seen you be—”

“You have.”

Black coat flapping in the breeze over black uniform, burn fresh on temple. Gray eyes.

He smiled. “Great. So you’ve read the book, right? You’re a big fan. You tracked me down and want my autograph, right? Listen, this is flattering, but—”

Benton grabbed his arm. He looked into colorless blue eyes. “You know that’s not true. You know who we are.”

“I—”

“You see her in me. You’re right; she’s a part of me, but you knew the character wouldn’t be purely her. I’m a combination of many. The name Hope because she loved it, the name Benton because of that band. You feel it behind your eyes. You—”

He shrugged her off. “Don’t touch me.”