He notices; in spaces between when he's working, when everything falls quiet and he can't seem to egg out a response, sometimes when he's too busy to look over his shoulder. He wonders, then he forgets, then he wonders again - usually if someone is following him, he ends up jumped in short order. He's not the sort of person anyone tends to keep tabs on for extended periods of time.

Halfway home there's a park, and Remy sits down on a bench near the path that circles it. It's dark, and some whimsical part of him thinks places like this should have fireflies. They pop up closer to the house, and they're all over in Echomire; he likes it over there. He lights a cigarette and leans forward, elbows rested on his knees, watching out over the barely-illuminated grass, old iron lamp posts making shadow patterns through the trees.

Waiting.