He’s in the middle of a thought when it happens.
He thinks, I’ll go to the diner first, maybe. I’m hungry. I’m really hungry. I bet they have meatloaf in there. With mashed potatoes. There will be pie for dessert, fresh pie that they’ll serve with coffee and it’ll be safe and warm and I’ll—
There is the screech of metal crumpling, of glass shattering around him. For the briefest of moments, there is a scorching pain that rips through him, his skull feeling like it’s imploding. There’s a voice in his head, and it’s saying, Oh my god, this is it, this is it, this is it, and he’s just nailed with a dizzying sense of vertigo, like the ground has been pulled out from under his feet and he’s spinning upside down, falling up and falling down, and he feels wet, like he’s being splashed with water, and he’s in pain, so much pain, and he can feel his blood pouring out from him and he can’t breathe and everything is spinning round and round and round and—
And it just… stops.
He’s staggered forward across the town line into Amorea.
There is no collapsing metal.
There is no breaking glass.
He is not upside down, feet pointed toward the sky.
The pain fades, as if it were never there at all.
He has not been sliced open.
He is not bleeding.
He looks up.
And it hits him.
His name is Mike Frazier.
He’s thirty-six years old.
He’s a large man, a strong man. He has dark auburn hair, full and wavy, tucked loosely behind his ears. He has a full beard that needs to be trimmed. He sunburns easily, and in fact can already feel the thin stretch of heat on his skin. He has five freckles on his right cheek that make the shape of the Big Dipper. He has big hands that know kindness.
He’s a good man. Or, at least, he tries to be.
He lives in Amorea.
He has a little house.
He has an old crusty cat named Martin.
He works at the bookstore.
He likes people. He knows everyone in town.
He has friends. Good friends. Even best friends.
There’s one he puts above all others. Just the thought of him makes him flush, his heart tripping all over itself. He needs to finally work up the courage to do something about it before everyone else tries to meddle.
He likes many things. Listening to radio serials. Pulling weeds in his sorry excuse for a garden. Shooting the shit at the diner while trying not to stare too hard at the man moving in between the tables, a devilish smile on his face. He also likes reading and sitting out on the back patio in the sun and watching the stars come out at night.
He’s lived in Amorea for a very long time.
In fact, he can’t think of a time he didn’t live in Amorea.
He’s safe here.
He’s happy here.
He loves everything about this place because it’s home. The people here are home.