Kyle was sitting by himself at a small corner table in the back of the sub shop when the four teenaged boys walked in. There was no one else in the place except the young woman working behind the counter, the friendly one who’d put together his foot-long turkey and cheese. Her name tag read AMY, and she looked about the same age as the boys, maybe eighteen or nineteen. Too young to be working in a lonely eatery in a sketchy neighborhood by herself at night. Kyle had been extra polite to her when he ordered, pulled the cap off his longish sandy hair, and he’d left his jacket on in case a lot of arm tattoos made her nervous. Right after serving him she’d started prepping to close up. He glanced over now to see her shaking her head at the new customers, likely wishing she’d already locked the door.

His radar went on high alert. The kids were obviously intoxicated—unsteady on their feet, flushed faces, far too loud. But there was also a menacing aura to them, to the way they’d thrown open the door, the numerous f-bombs and caustic laughter, how they yelled over each other and disregarded anyone around them. They were the kind of kids he had disliked even when he was their age. They all wore flat-brimmed caps and expensive ski jackets and sneakers. Likely wealthy kids from the South Hill looking for trouble in downtown Spokane on a Wednesday night.

They stayed near the door, staring at phone screens and passing around an aluminum water bottle that no doubt contained something other than water. Kyle was done eating, but he didn’t like the idea of leaving Amy alone with them, so he stayed put, sipped his soda, and kept his head down. He had time before he had to leave for the airport for his red-eye flight. Or flights, actually. It took stops in Seattle, Atlanta, and Washington, D.C., to finally get to Potsdam, New York, by tomorrow afternoon because it was so far upstate. Ask ten New Yorkers where upstate began and they might offer ten different answers, but they’d all agree Potsdam was as upstate as it gets.