"Every day a piano doesn't fall on my head is good luck." – Meg Rosoff

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"Sugar or cream?"

I tapped my chin, contemplating the cursive menu hanging above whirring machines. Sips of various beverages punctuated soft murmurs of conversation. Businesspeople bustled around, snatching black coffee from baristas and bursting out the door, while students dotted the tables, typing wearily at their laptops. The barista standing before me had a polite smile plastered across her lips, a burgundy apron hugging her waist.

My gaze flickered towards a small clock perched on striped beige-and-brown walls, which was steadily ticking away. The thin, spindly hands rested at seven minutes past ten, which meant that Wyatt was already seven minutes late for our meet-up.

There'd been radio silence from him for days after the lightbulb incident. During that time, I was working through the five stages of grief, so I didn't bother contacting him. No one had died, of course, save for the death of my own sanity. I was still having a hard time believing him, but we'd exchanged numbers after we escaped the Latin classroom. Still, a part of me hoped that Wyatt would never reach out.

Come Friday evening of that same week, however, I was proven wrong.

That night, dinner was interrupted by a sharp ping! from my phone. The text which awaited me was simple, blunt, and unwelcome. "10 am. Tomorrow. Josie's Café." And as much as I'd wanted to chuck my phone away, I grudgingly obliged, dragging myself out of bed on a mild Saturday morning to meet my predicament. Choosing a coffee order.

"Sugar or cream?" The barista repeated in a bored tone. She cleared her throat, which startled me out of my reverie.

"Both, I guess," I answered, shrugging helplessly. "Just give me whatever you think is decent. I hardly ever drink coffee, so I don't know what's good and what's not."

"No problem," she replied, but her exasperated tone indicated that this was, indeed, a problem. I suppose I was making her job harder by fumbling my order, so I made a note to tip more generously. "I'll add two sugars and a dollop of cream. That okay?"

"Perfect," I assured her.

"Great." She looked relieved that I didn't argue. "Your coffee will be ready in two minutes. Would you like anything else?"

"Two chocolate croissants and a cappuccino," came a voice behind her. Wyatt popped out, giving me a smile. To my surprise, he also had a burgundy apron tied around his waist. "I'll take it from here, Lana."

"I haven't charged her yet," Lana said, twisting backward to glare at him. "That'll be $14.50 altogether." She reached towards the cash register, but he pushed her hand away.

"It's on me," Wyatt said firmly. He pulled out several crumpled notes and a couple of quarters from his pocket, flattening out the green slips of paper. He tapped on the cash register, which sprang open, and he carefully deposited the cash into each division.

As he closed the cash register, I sent him a quizzical look. Wyatt waved his hand airily in response. Lana's eyebrows disappeared into her caramel-streaked fringe as she glanced between the two of us, but then she shrugged and turned back to the cash register.

"Sure, whatever." She waved us away. "Have fun, lovebirds."

My mouth fell open. "Lovebirds?" I spluttered, staring at her incredulously. "We're not–"

"Ignore her," Wyatt said firmly. "She gets off on making people feel awkward."

"Well, she's pretty good at it."

"Like I said, ignore her." He added a hefty dollop of cream to a latte and carefully wrapped up a panini before handing it to a frantic-looking businessman, who snatched the items away and sprinted out of the door without even a thank you. Wyatt didn't seem bothered by this, and simply turned back to me after the customer left. "Lana's a good friend of mine, but she's a goddamn weirdo. I'll never understand her."

"Takes one to know one," Lana shot back. Her next customer was deliberating between toffee and hazelnut syrup, so she took the opportunity to rejoin our conversation. "I'm pretty sure a prerequisite for being hired here is to be a weirdo. That, or an arts major."

I raised an eyebrow at Wyatt. "So, you work here?"

"Yeah, part-time," he clarified. "I've been here since seven, but my shift's over now. I'll grab my stuff and then we can leave."

As Wyatt spoke, he swiftly untied his apron, revealing a black t-shirt underneath. My stare lingered on his arms for a second, lined with cool-toned veins and more muscle definition than I gave him credit for, but I looked away before he noticed me ogling him. I'd been so focused on lamenting my association with all these superstitions that I hadn't realised how good-looking Wyatt was. I'd noticed in passing, of course, before I fell off the bridge, but now I could appreciate it without the added inconvenience of dying in a riverbed.

"I didn't peg you as the barista type," I remarked, hoping the heat on my cheeks could be attributed to warm weather.

"Wait a sec." Wyatt disappeared into the back room. He emerged without an apron, but with a navy backpack slung over his shoulder. "Well, what did you peg me as?"

I looked him up and down. "I'm not sure, yet. Honestly, I didn't think you had a life outside of conspiracy theories. I sort of expected you to be cooped up in your room all the time."

"Well, sorry to disappoint, but I do have some semblance of a social life." Wyatt gestured lazily towards Lana. She made no comment, but swiftly flipped him the bird when her customers weren't looking. "Plus, I need an income. I'm saving up for college, you know."

"Fair enough," I nodded. "Though, come to think of it, I've never met any of your friends before. I didn't think you had any."

He looked mildly offended at that and opened his mouth to retort, but was cut off.

"Cappuccino, macchiato, two chocolate croissants?" another employee called out, setting each item on the counter. The slits on our coffee cup lids released a flow of steam that quickly evaporated, while the croissants were neatly wrapped in brown paper bags.

"That's us," Wyatt said, fingers wrapping around each cup. He passed one to me, and I cupped it with both hands, taking a sip. It was on the sweeter side, but not overwhelmingly so. Wyatt waved goodbye to his coworkers with his free hand before grabbing the two paper bags. "Come on. Let's get out of here."

I suddenly remembered my internal promise to tip Lana. "Oh, wait." I pulled out my wallet and took out a ten-dollar note, folded into thirds due to the compression of my wallet but otherwise smooth. Lana, who was serving another customer, gave a nod of thanks as I dropped it into the tip jar beside the cash register. Other coins inside the container glinted gold under the morning sunshine.

"That's generous," Wyatt remarked, lowering his voice so Lana couldn't eavesdrop. "You know you're funding her weed-smoking habit, right? I don't think I've ever seen her sober."

"Yeah, so? You planning to report her or something?"

He looked affronted. "Hey. I'm a lot of things, but I'm not a snitch. And for the record, I don't care about the legality of it all. I'm worried about what it'll do to her lungs."

I shrugged. "Well, it's not my business what she spends her hard-earned money on. Plus, she has to deal with you for several hours a week. She deserves the tip."

I tucked my wallet into a little pocket inside my brown messenger bag and patted the other pockets, making sure my house keys were still inside. If they really were a good luck charm, then I wasn't taking any chances by keeping them in my pocket and losing them again. As disbelieving as I still was about superstitions, and as much as Wyatt scoffed at my nonchalance, I had taken it upon myself to research a thing or two about bad luck during the past few days. Of course, I would never admit this to Wyatt, who'd hold it over my head for the rest of my life.

"Well, I have to deal with you all the time. Where's my tip?" Wyatt grumbled, passing a croissant to me. I unwrapped the paper and took a bite. The flaky bread melted under my tongue and I hummed happily, but I barely had time to enjoy another bite before Wyatt steered me out of the café.

He pushed the door open and we stepped out, the twinkle of the doorbell following us as we stepped onto the path. The mellow jazz music that filled the café was slowly fading as we made our way down the street. I glanced back wistfully. It was a place that I could see myself spending a lot of time in, and if that meant seeing Wyatt more often, so be it.

"Hey, sorry to meet up on such late notice," Wyatt apologised. "I wanted to organize my evidence before I went through it with you. That's why I went no-contact for a few days. Once I got my stuff together, I decided that it'd be best for you to find out now than later."

"Well, it's not the worst way to start off a weekend. Plus, you paid for my coffee and croissant. I should be thanking you." I tipped my macchiato towards him. "So, thank you."

"No problem-o." A smile tugged at his lips. "Avoid the cracks, by the way." He gestured to the cracks that decorated the sidewalk.

"Aw, seriously?" I sighed, but nevertheless, I heeded his advice and made sure to carefully avoid each one. "I step on cracks all the time and nothing bad has happened yet."

He squinted at me suspiciously. "What, you've never failed a test, cracked your phone, lost a pen, or anything like that afterwards?"

"Correlation doesn't equal causation. Have you ever taken a statistics class?"

"Yeah, duh. It's a requirement. Have you ever taken history?" Wyatt countered, draining the remainder of his coffee and chucking it into a nearby bin. I'd finished my croissant at this point and tossed my wrapper as well, holding the coffee with my other hand. "I'm surprised you haven't encountered any Necmirean history yet. It's pretty dark stuff."

A sharp squawk suddenly reverberated somewhere above me, carried by the gentle breeze that swirled the orange leaves at my feet. Startled, I almost set my foot down on the next crack, but Wyatt's fingers wrapped around my forearm and he yanked me away.

I managed to avoid the crack and successfully kept a grip on my coffee, but my bag tumbled to the ground. I bent down to pick it up, but before I could do so, Wyatt's grip on my arm tightened. He nudged my side and tilted his chin upwards, towards the towering trees.

"Huh?" I frowned, craning my neck to look up. I squinted through the myriad of colorful leaves. Their shiny green sheen was slowly transitioning into a fiery inferno of reds and oranges, which marked the beginning of fall. It was gorgeous, but I was confused about why Wyatt seemed more worried than amazed. "What am I meant to be looking at?"

Wyatt pointed towards a small clump of leaves above us, with branches sticking out at odd angles as if they were the rotting bones of a skeleton. My eyes darted across the branches for several moments before I spotted it. It was hidden in the shadows, perched on a thicker branch and sheltered by a wall of leaves, but the beady eyes and sleek feathers were unmistakable.

"Is that a crow?" I whispered, and the temperature seemed to drop a few degrees. Wyatt nodded mutely. I only saw him out of the corner of my eye, unable to tear my gaze away from the bird. "Aren't they supposed to be a symbol of bad luck as well?"

Wyatt released his vice grip, and I sighed in relief as my blood circulation resumed. He unzipped his backpack and rummaged through it. "If you see one, it's considered bad luck. If you see two, that's good luck."

"Let's hope there's two, then," I murmured. The crow, whose blank eyes had been fixated on a spot above our heads, suddenly turned its head so it was staring directly at me. "Uh, it's looking at me. Oh god, it's looking at me. That's super creepy. Wyatt, a little help?"

He was preoccupied with his backpack, reaching into its depths until his hand was scraping the bottom. My bag was still resting at my feet, but I was too busy having a staring contest with the crow to pick it up.

"I brought another one, I swear. Where did I put the damn thing?" Wyatt muttered.

"Another what?"

"Another charm, Zoey. I assume you didn't take the initiative to bring one, so I decided to bring an extra in case this happened. I think it's buried somewhere under my laptop."

The crow twitched, opening its gray beak to release another deafening squawk, but I was prepared this time and managed not to flinch. My head turned wildly as I looked, hoped, prayed that there was a second crow hidden somewhere in the foliage. "A charm? What, like a four-leaf clover or a rabbit's foot? You think those things would work?"

"Yes, but–"

Before Wyatt could finish his sentence, a car engine revved from behind us, startling us out of our panic. Wyatt flinched and accidentally stepped onto a crack, but he managed to keep a grip on his backpack. Since it was filled with charms, that meant he was protected from any bad luck that would follow.

I, however, wasn't so lucky.

Though I was no longer surprised by crow squawks, I was not prepared for another loud noise to erupt into the quiet morning. Several other passersby on the sidewalk flinched or clapped their hands over their ears, while I let out a surprised yelp and stumbled backward. My coffee sloshed around in its small cup, nearly spilling out of the lid.

Then, my stomach suddenly dropped as my shoe sank into something much squishier than regular concrete. "Oh, crap."

"It's not crap. It's wet concrete." Wyatt seemed to be holding back a laugh. "I guess they're doing some roadwork in this area."

"Oh, you've gotta be kidding me," I groaned, yanking my foot out of the glistening concrete and inspecting the underside of my shoe. The damage wasn't severe, but I'd have to wait for the concrete to dry before I started walking. "These are my favorite boots!"

"Well, now they're a walking death trap," he commented as I wiped my shoe against a dry part of the footpath, hoping to lessen the damage. "Wow, Zoey, you've left a literal carbon footprint. You're really making a mark on the world, aren't you?"

"You have three seconds to shut up before I punch that smirk off your face."

Our banter was interrupted by the black crow, which let out a final squawk and took off into the clear skies, leaving the branch quivering in its wake. Wyatt and I stared as it plunged through the wispy clouds, wings outstretched. It blocked out the sun for a split second, then soared away until it became a dot in the distance. I hoped it would never return.

"So, I'm guessing this," I turned my foot so the side drenched with concrete was facing up, "is the consequence of seeing that crow?"

"Yep," Wyatt replied, popping the 'p'. I decided it would take too long to wait for the concrete to dry, so I reluctantly removed my boots and gingerly stepped onto the concrete with my bare socks. A passerby gave me a funny look, but said nothing as she brushed past us. Wyatt lifted my messenger bag off the ground by the strap and handed it back to me. "I told you, you should've brought a charm. What happened to those keys you had on the bridge?"

"I don't–" I started to protest, before coming to a realization. "Wait, hold on."

Only a sip of coffee remained in my cup, so I drained the last dregs and threw it in the bin before hastily unzipping my bag. I traced my fingers over each small pocket inside, and eventually they closed upon a sharp set of metal. The keys clanged against each other in the breeze as I removed them from the bag.

Wyatt sighed, burying his face in his hands. "You had those the whole time, yet you dropped your bag right before you saw that crow? God, you have the worst timing."

"Well, I didn't know I had to keep them on my person at all times," I grumbled, shoving the keys back where they came from and swinging the bag over my shoulder. "Plus, who knew we'd happen to see a crow today? Aren't they supposed to be nocturnal?"

"No, they're diurnal. You're thinking of owls," Wyatt corrected.

I heaved a sigh, knowing he was probably right. I didn't know enough about the circadian rhythms of birds to argue, so I switched subjects. "Well, to answer your question before we were ambushed by that creature of death, no, I don't know anything about Necmirean history."

His eyebrows creased together. "Wait, really?"

"Yeah, dummy. When we first met, I told you that I moved here from Seattle, remember? I've only been here for a couple of months. How am I supposed to be well-versed in the history of a town I just moved to?"

"Oh!" He smacked his hand against his forehead. "Damn, you're right. It feels like you're an old friend of mine, not someone I've barely known for two weeks."

I was slightly taken aback. "Oh, well, that's nice of you. You know what? You're forgiven."

"Much appreciated, Your Majesty," Wyatt said sarcastically. "Hey, I'm not sure if I said this last time, but welcome to Necmire."

"You did say that last time, but I'll give you a pass," I laughed, adjusting my bag strap. "So, bridge, chocolate milk, lightbulb, and now concrete. Not a conventional welcome, but you've made it less of a horror show."

"How so?"

"I don't know. Just by being here, I guess. It's nice to have someone around who actually knows what's happening."

Wyatt looked gratified. A pink tinge appeared on his cheeks. "Well, let's make that two of us. If you don't know about this town's history, libraries are the best way to find out. Come on, the public library's about a mile away."

The breeze picked up at that moment, gusts of wind creating fiery whirlpools of orange leaves that tickled our ankles. I picked up a handful of these leaves, admiring their vibrant colors, when I was suddenly struck with an idea. Wyatt raised his eyebrows as I carefully stuck the foliage onto my concrete-stained shoe. The leaves even complimented the burgundy faux leather that lined the outside of my boot. I was rather impressed with myself, to be honest.

I showed my invention to Wyatt, who was stifling a laugh. "See? Now I don't have to worry about my shoes sticking to the ground."

"It's creative, I'll give you that," he admitted, zipping up his backpack and slinging it on his shoulder. "Come on, let's go."

So, we gathered up our belongings and continued onwards. Wyatt informed me that since I had my keys on my person, stepping on cracks shouldn't affect me. Despite this, my experience this morning was enough to keep me the hell away from anything that even resembled a crack. I also flinched every time a bird passed overhead, hoping for dear life that it wasn't another crow. Wyatt, noticing my jittery behavior, took the hint and we picked up the pace.

Soon, we were settled on beanbags which had been haphazardly tossed in corner of the library. Wyatt saw this as an opportunity to camp out at this location, because he didn't want to risk anyone overhearing what we were discussing. To be honest, I didn't know why he was so paranoid. If what he said before was true, that no one except the two of us knew about the superstitions, then anyone who eavesdropped would assume he's a lunatic. I certainly did, the first time we met.

"Why books, though?" I asked, snuggling down into my purple beanbag. I'd already removed my boots once we entered and hid them behind me, for fear of some librarian accusing me of tracking concrete into the building. "It's the 21st century, can't we just search for it on the internet? We've got so much information at our fingertips."

"Sure, you can find the innocuous stuff by searching it up," Wyatt explained. "You know, like, who founded Necmire, where it's located, population count, et cetera. But it's impossible to find the stuff that we're looking for on Google. Superstitions, charms, luck."

I stared at him blankly. "What do you mean, it's impossible to find on Google? Have you tried Bing?"

"No, I mean it's actually impossible." Wyatt rifled through the leather-bound books on the shelf behind him, index finger brushing the spines until he stopped at a particularly hefty edition. He swiftly pulled it out and flipped to the index. "A few months ago, I searched up something with the words Necmire and superstition. Then, my phone died almost instantly. I bought a new one and I haven't tried to search for anything like that since."

I was speechless for a moment, which gave Wyatt adequate time to flip to his desired chapter. "Wait, your phone somehow died right after you searched that? Are you sure there wasn't anything else wrong with it? Like, maybe the battery eroded?"

"Nope, I got it checked up at the tech store. It was in perfect condition. No physical damage. It just died out of nowhere. They even sent my phone to Boston to see if their technicians could figure it out, but no one could. It was eventually attributed to some kind of virus."

"That's crazy," I murmured. "Well, that sounds like less of a bad luck problem and more of a technology problem. Maybe you picked up the virus somewhere else. Pirate any movies lately?"

The beanbag I was lounging on was beginning to tear at the seams. A few beans threatened to escape from the inside, so I gently pushed them back in while Wyatt slowly scanned down a page. I was too far away to read the words, but I could make out an artistic interpretation of a woman tied to a stake as fire flared around her feet. Salem witch trials, of course. I tore my gaze away after a split second, unable to stomach the anguish streaked across the painted woman's face.

"It's because of that Google search, I'm sure of it," Wyatt answered, albeit belatedly. He snapped the book shut and slid it back onto the shelf, looking unsatisfied. "Here's the thing. I don't think it was caused by bad luck. I didn't see any bad omens that day and I had charms on me. What else could've done it?"

"Beats me," I tried to say through a mouthful of Wyatt's croissant.

He'd lost his appetite after flipping through several paintings of gruesome murders in that book of his, so he'd given the remainder of his food to me. I'd accepted, and was now happily stuffing my face with chocolate goodness. No one around us noticed, or seemed to care, that I was breaking the library rules. If the librarians themselves noticed, then they were also turning a blind eye.

I polished off the rest of the croissant, stuffing the paper wrapping back into my messenger bag. Wyatt had picked out another, even thicker, volume of Necmirean history and was steadily making his way through a detailed explanation of the town's legislation.

"So, how much have you figured out so far?" I asked, leaning against the nearest shelf.

Wyatt looked up and choked down a laugh, gesturing to my lips. "Chocolate lipstick. Bold fashion statement, Zoey."

I shot him a scathing glare and rummaged around my bag for a tissue, withdrawing a pack of Kleenex to wipe the edge of my mouth with. "Step on a Lego, Wyatt."

"You first," he shot back without missing a beat. "Anyway, I've figured out a decent amount. I've been testing out my theories for a while, and I think I've pieced together a working system. It's sort of complicated, though. Where do you want me to start?"

"Let's start with those good luck charms," I jutted my chin at his navy backpack, which Wyatt unzipped and rummaged inside. "How do those work? What do they actually do?"

A horseshoe embedded with silver studs and a four-leaf clover enclosed in a tiny jar emerged from the bag in tandem. My fingers closed around the horseshoe first. I ran my fingertips across each stud, marveling at how shiny they were. Next, my attention flitted to the four-leaf clover. Each vibrant, slightly asymmetrical leaf stretched towards the sun.

"Well, first off, I call them charms. Not good luck charms, just charms," Wyatt explained, gesturing towards the jar.

I handed it back to him and he screwed open the lid, allowing the clover to drop onto his palm. The size difference between his hand and the plant was enormous. Did he expect me to carry something so fragile around too? There's no way I could avoid damaging it.

"Why do you leave out the good luck part?" I inquired, passing the horseshoe to him.

"Believe it or not, charms don't seem to be lucky here in Necmire. By luck, I refer to fortune, by the way. Wealth and success and whatever. These charms," he held up the studded horseshoe in one hand and the four-leaf clover in the other, spinning the latter between his index finger and thumb, "work as a preventative measure against bad omens."

"What do you mean?"

"So, if you keep a charm on you, it cancels out the bad luck, but it won't do anything more. If you want to avoid falling off a bridge after seeing a black cat, by all means, keep a four-leaf clover in your pocket, but if you want to win the lottery, that clover would be useless."

My eyebrows knitted together. "Well, that's dumb. Why's this system different from all those other myths? I thought charms were supposed to bring good luck."

"I have no clue," Wyatt yawned, tucking the charms into his backpack. He stretched his arms above his head, and his black t-shirt rose high enough to reveal a strip of his abdomen. My curious gaze flickered towards it. "There's a lot of stuff I still haven't figured out. And for the record, I didn't believe in superstitions either, until I moved here. The concept takes some getting used to."

"You moved here too?" I asked, glancing away from his exposed abdomen. "When?"

"Five years ago. My dad had some kind of epiphany one day, suddenly decided to pack up our entire life in Chicago and move here instead. I've been in Necmire ever since."

"Huh." I slumped back to ponder this unexpected answer. "Did he ever tell you why?"

"No. I don't talk to him much. Never really have."

"Well, what does your mom think?"

"She's out of the picture," he said shortly.

That was the end of the conversation, if his stiff demeanor was anything to go by. I took the hint and fell silent, picking at another loose thread on the beanbag. Truth be told, I was curious about how she was out of the picture, but I knew better than to pry. Plus, questions about the luck system were still plaguing me, and that was a far more pressing matter compared to the strained relationship between Wyatt and his parents.

"So, I get how charms can protect us if we have them with us, but what about knocking on wood?" I asked, returning to a safer subject matter. "It's not like touching wood once will make you immune to bad luck forever, right?"

"Yeah, I thought of that," Wyatt responded, his bitter expression clearing. He looked relieved that I didn't press further. "The luck that comes from knocking on wood seems to last for a short time, around five minutes. One time, I tried doing it and then spilling a salt shaker immediately afterward. Nothing happened, so I tried spilling salt every sixty seconds after that. At the five minute mark, I got an email that I'd been fired from my previous job."

"You sure that's not just because of your work ethic?"

The corner of his mouth twitched up. "Well, it might've had something to do with me accidentally emailing the Bee Movie script to my boss, but let's ignore that part."

I buried my face in my hands to suppress my giggles. A couple of library-goers, who'd kindly ignored our whispered discussions up until this point, twisted around and shot pointed glares at me. I sobered up at once, zipping up my mouth and pretending to throw away the key. Wyatt pressed his fingers over his lips, trying not to laugh at my predicament. All in all, it took over a minute before we managed to calm down.

"God, that's so dumb. I love it. Never change," I sighed, shaking my head. "Anyway, here's what we've got so far. Bad omens lead to bad luck. Charms are preventative, they don't bring any fortune. Knocking on wood gives us about five minutes of luck. Always check what files you've attached before you send emails. Have I missed anything?"

"Nope, that's everything. A+ effort, Zoey. I didn't think you were paying attention to half the things I said, but you came through."

"Thank you," I performed an awkward half-bow. "You did all the work, though. How long have you been piecing all this together?" A hint of admiration crept into my voice.

"A year or so." He shrugged. "Time flies when you research the twisted folklore of a creepy town."

I gave him an appraising look. "You're an enigma, Wyatt Taylor. You know that, right?"

"Well, if anyone's going to be the first to figure me out, I'm glad it's you."

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A/N: HELLO! It's been a year! Yikes, I am so sorry! I hope you're coping okay and that you're safe during COVID-19. An explanation for my absence – I was a big stupid dum dum who kept my prewritten chapters and notes on a free trial of Scrivener, but my MacBook broke so I had to buy a new one, and now I've lost almost all the work I've put into this story, since I never ended up buying Scrivener. I had a lot of prewritten chapters and now I have to write them all over again :(

I hope this chapter isn't too long btw, it's like 5500+ words. The café scene took up a bigger chunk of the chapter than I expected and the crow thing wasn't even supposed to happen, I made up that part on the spot.

Also, I promise that most of the characters I've introduced and/or mentioned are relevant to the plot! I know it's a lot of names to remember, and a lot of seemingly pointless filler stuff, but it will be relevant later. Lana and Mr. Griffiths are the only minor characters so far, everyone else is a major character or ends up being one :)

~ Yilei