Anton's POV
Frederick's Diner buzzed with its usual Sunday chaos. Football players squeezed into vinyl booths, someone's kid brother darted between tables dodging waitresses, and the air hung thick with maple syrup and scorched coffee grounds.
This was the slice of ordinary life I desperately craved.
Ezekiel hunched over his plate across from me, stabbing at his scrambled eggs without eating them. His baseball cap sat pulled down so far it nearly covered his eyes, like he could make himself invisible. I understood the impulse. After seeing another flood of posts and brutal comments online, I was ready to hurl my phone straight through the plate glass window.
"Man," I said, slumping against the cracked leather booth. "We should just torch our social media accounts and disappear to Vine."
Ezekiel let out a bitter laugh. "You complain when it hits sixty degrees."
"Alright, fine. Mexico then. Somewhere with zero cell towers."
