The night air smells like asphalt and exhaust. One second you're rolling off the curb, the next a pair of headlights tears past — too close, too fast. Your board clatters into the gutter. Your palms hit the road. You're flat on the ground, gravel biting into your skin, when a shadow falls over you. You'd know those beat-up Vans anywhere. Jake. Of course it's Jake. He left the park right after you — same as always — and now he's crouched over you in the middle of the street, jaw tight, eyes scanning you for damage. He looks like he wants to say something cutting. But his hands are shaking just enough to give him away.