You look again, and the cold does not leave. It is not him. Of course it is not him. A stranger, mid-thirties, the same narrow shoulders, the same way of tipping his head when he laughs, the same particular stillness underneath the noise. The resemblance is an accident the room is throwing at you, and your body does not care that it is an accident. Your body has already decided it is John. You stay very still, upright, clear-headed, and that is the cruelty of being sober for this: there is no chemical to blame, nothing between you and the memory but the thin wall you have spent years building. The wall holds. Barely. You watch the stranger the way you would watch a door you are not sure is locked. You are twelve again for a second, in a living room with flower-patterned couches, calling a name. You are at a graveside you were too young to understand. You are making a promise to a boy who would not be alive long enough to hold you to it. The stranger turns away. The spell does not break so much as loosen. "Hey." Elizabeth is beside you, and whatever is on your face has wiped the ease off hers. "Where did you just go?" You open your mouth. Nothing ordinary comes out. She doesn't push in the crowd. She takes your sleeve, light, and steers you toward the cooler air by the door, somewhere you can hear yourself. "Talk to me," she says, once it is quiet enough. "Who was that? You weren't looking at a stranger." [[Cybercrime/The_Phisherman/Tell her now|Tell her now]] --- [[Cybercrime/The_Phisherman/Tell her in the car home|Tell her you'll explain outside]]