“Jack!” Emmett cried again. He held his arms out in front of him like a drowning man seeking help. His fingers brushed over fur coats and cold, damp jackets. Behind him, something warm and heavy leaned against his back. He tried to turn and couldn’t—the mess of people kept him moving in one direction only, moving slowly along the street, trapped in their midst. “Jack!”
Suddenly a strong hand clasped his. Emmett couldn’t see who held him, but by now he didn’t care. He let the stranger pull him from the crowd. As the people around him began to thin out, Emmett saw a tall man before him, holding onto his hand. When he realized it wasn’t Jack, he tried to extract his hand from the tight grip and couldn’t. “Jack,” he muttered. No, he wanted to say. This isn’t right, you aren’t Jack. Stop.
But
