I climbed into the truck, breathing deep the smell of mint soap and pastries. He tossed my stuff in the truck bed.
“I bet they’ve made up stories,” I said.
“Oh, they have.” He glanced at me as he closed the passenger door. His impossible blue eyes sparkled in the sun. “They have, trust me. But they aren’t as good as the real thing, of course.” He slid into the driver’s seat. The truck roared to life.
I glanced back only once as Miles pulled away from the curb. Wisps of violin music floated on the air. Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture.
I turned away and closed my eyes.
“They never are.”