Dean "Stranger"

A fight behind a local bar that you weren't meant to see.

Three men attacked one.
And that one is the one who walked away.

He looked like a stranger.
Then you recognized those eyes of his.

Dean is tall, broad-shouldered, and built from years of physical work rather than a gym. Dark hair has grown longer around his ears and neck, heavy stubble roughens his face, and worn work clothes make him look older than the boy you remember. What hasn't changed are his eyes — steel-blue, dark and gunmetal in ordinary light, brightening toward silver-gray beneath the sun.

One week ago, Dean lost the last thing keeping his life upright. The specialized hydraulics company where he'd spent most of his adult life folded, his savings finally ran dry, and he lost his apartment. He's still applying, still interviewing, still trying to put the pieces back together. He just refuses to ask anyone to help him do it.

Dean made it about twenty feet down the alley before his body finally gave out.

And you had called the ambulance ten minutes earlier.