The light turns green and cars zoom ahead. Orange jumps back. What is wrong with him? He holds on to a lamppost and watches the cars drive by, the horror on his face so exaggerated that I’d laugh if his panic didn’t seem genuine.

The light turns red and the street sign changes to walk once more. But Orange doesn’t move.

“What are you doing?” I yell.

Orange points at the cars. “Streets aren’t for walking. They’re for driving.”

“Yeah, but . . .” Is he serious? “You can walk now.” I point at the pedestrian sign, back to the bright white silhouette of a walking person. Dozens of tourists and beachgoers walk by and give him awkward looks over their shoulders. It takes one such pedestrian bumping him with a large cooler to finally get him to make a move.

Orange takes a deep breath and slowly steps forward, hovering his foot over the street.

“It’s going to be okay, O—” I stop myself. I can’t keep calling him Orange. “What’s your name?”

“R-Ross,” he yells, and I swear he cringes.

“It’s going to be okay, Ross,” I call, this time with an encouraging thumbs-up and a smile like I give toddlers during their swim lessons at the club. It works, and Ross lowers his foot closer to the asphalt.

“Just take it one step at a time,” I shout.

Ross plants his foot in the street and gives a tentative look at the truck waiting there. Its driver stares at Ross like he’s lost his mind. Which, maybe he has and I should be looking for a doctor or something after all.

He takes another step, then another. But when the crosswalk starts to beep to signal the light’s about to change, Ross freezes right in the middle of the road.

“What’s that?!”

“It’s okay,” I soothe him, once again going into toddler mode. “But you’re going to have to hurry.”

“Why?”

I point to the glowing red hand on the crossing light flashing next to a series of numbers. Eight, seven . . . “Because the cars are going to start driving again.”

“What?” Six, five . . . The wide-eyed horror is back. “I knew this would happen!”

Four, three . . .

He’s not going to make it on his own. I sprint to him and grab his hand. “Run!” We race toward the opposite side of the street, but we’re still only two-thirds across by the time the numbers reach zero. Cars honk, causing Ross to squeeze my hand in a death grip while he screams, “WHAT THE FLICK?!”

Despite his complete and total fear, Ross editing himself from saying fuck is actually pretty cute. Must be some sweet country-ism from Indiana.