“Because we feel more than them. Their lives are small, so they try to make us small, label us, put us in boxes. It’s diabolical, when you think about it. They’re trying to make us less. I mean, so what if we’re messed up and full of craziness? So what?”

I don’t answer, because right then I get a prickling feeling on my scalp. That sense again—I’m being watched.

My heart thuds. I look around the carriage.

And I see him.

He stands diagonally across from us. He’s wearing faded black jeans with a fat belt, high-top boots, a white T-shirt (tight) and a leather bomber jacket with a faux-fur collar. He looks muscular and tough, like he could bash through a brick wall. His hair is short, dark, and wavy. I guess of Middle Eastern or African descent. His eyes are coal-dark and calm—gunfighter eyes—and his lips are full and…oh, let’s just go ahead and say it, he’s beautiful. And he’s staring…Right. At. Me. Yours truly.

“Hello? Earth to Moon?”

I look away. I look back. Bloody hell. His eyes. They don’t waver from me.

“Moon! You’re doing that thing you always do. You’re disappearing, Moon. You’re off in your head again. Hello? Anyone  home?”

Maybe in my don’t-even-think-about-it mustard-yellow hoodie and skinny jeans I’ve still got it, but this is weird.

Fine. Two can play this game. A stare-off.

But this guy must be a professional poker player—he’s inscrutable. And there’s something in the steeliness of his look, like he’s probing, asking questions.

“Aaaah! Now I get it. Moon, you’re forgiven. God, he’s a dish.”

I glance briefly at Bea. I look back, and he’s edged closer.

My heart slams. My palms are clammy. I feel like bolting. I take a sip of my coffee and pretend to fuss with the lid. When I look up, he’s right in front of us.

“Hi,” Bea says.

He looks at us, from Bea to me. It’s you, he seems to say. And my heart quails, because I swear his lips don’t move. The words just form in my head. They appear there. Like that! But then my brain kicks in and dismisses the idea.

“Let’s start with a name,” Bea says. “And we’ll go from there.”

He looks focused, like he’s trying to work something out. “I’m Malik,” he says. This time, aloud. Dead sexy voice. Husky.

A change comes over his face, as if he’s affirming something.

“I’m Bea,” Bea says (God, I’m envious of her easiness). “Beatrice Gold. And this here is my best friend in the world, the gorgeous and prodigiously clever—”

“Ana,” he says. “One ‘n.’ ”

I try to speak, but my voice is mutinous. The train lurches.

My heart kicks like a caged animal.