"Hey, you, girl," a thin, scratchy voice snarled from behind Andrea.
She opened her mouth to retort that the old woman was misquoting the old rock-and-roll song. The words caught in her throat when that wrinkled hand latched hard onto her arm. Self-defense mode kicked in, and she barely stopped herself from twisting her arm free while swinging upward with her other hand, palm flat, to shove hard against the nose of the stranger.
"Never heard of personal space and 'look, don't touch'?" she muttered, and stepped back from the woman.
A few people walking past during the busy lunch hour on Main Street glanced at them, but nobody stopped.
"You work at the paper. I've seen you."
"Intern," Andrea was quick to retort.
"Whatever," a man with the exact same sour, pursed-mouth expression said, stepping up next to the woman. He waved his hand like he waved away pesky flies. "We've all seen you."
We? Andrea looked around and saw three other people. All stooped, with narrowed eyes and mouths pressed flat in dissatisfaction. They weren't all old, but they were all at least thirty years older than her. Who could guess their real ages, with those unhappy, sour expressions and the way they dressed, sort of old-fashioned with long sleeves and collars buttoned up. Honestly, who wore long sleeves and hems nearly to their ankles and cardigans in this weather?Maybe they weren't human?