On your way over, you want to ask. You're in the passenger seat of the car, not the backseat, even though Fox feels old enough to be your father. This must mean he sees you as an equal in some regard, but everything you want to say doesn't make its way out. You're only honest at the worst possible times, it seems.
You can't imagine why someone would want to see you. Anyone at all. You're the one who left for some amount of time. You've been back, almost as long, just as uneventful- only vaguely pleasant, far too disconnected. You were just starting to let go, to get on with your life. It all seems too far away.
Why does everyone want you to be there? What's this important? Why does anyone care? You used to hate when no one would look at you, but everyone's eyes being on you doesn't feel any better.
You know what you want to ask, but when Fox looks at you during a red light, you clumsily ask "How did you all find me?"
"We know these things," he says absently, like this isn't his first time grabbing a random person from a street he won't remember.
Part of you wishes he didn't know.