"Hm?" Samantha looked up to meet the inquiry, her eyes darting from the blonde woman's confident, attractive features, to the shoulders and necks and wide eyes pressing in all around her. "What? No. I mean..." Yes. Yes. Yes, nineteen years ago, but what do you care? "My...son." Oh, hell. "But, I mean, I'm sure he's just over there a ways." Sam waved her arm in no direction in particular. She was beginning to feel tangled. All these strangers squeezing up against her, pushing and pardoning and excusing their little English asses off.
Hunter made no appearance. He seemed to be uncharacteristically distracted, and while she knew no one could see him, much less harm him, Samantha worried the worry of a mother whose teenage child has just disappeared into the folds of a mass of nervous, foreign faces. A busted train or a few premarital fireworks would be no problem for the ghost boy, but--Sam tasted smoke in her throat--what if that wasn't it?
She played confident with a smile. "We have cellphones. What a spectacle, huh?" she added, and folded her arms.