Then he vanishes into the darkness.
No goodbye.
No good luck.
Just riddles wrapped in small talk—pointing me toward escape… and weapons.
Just Kenji.
Helping the only way he’s allowed.
And leaving me to decide what kind of exile I’m going to be.
* For God’s sake…
* Of courseI can. Watch.
The forest floor is softer than it has any right to be. Moss, pine needles, the faint smell of cold dirt. I’m stretched out on my back, hands behind my head, staring up at the stars like some romantic fool waiting for inspiration to strike.
Next to me:
my dead companion, Skippy.
Saint’s emotional support corpse.
“So,” I say, glancing over at him, “what’s your real name?”
Silence.
“Not much of a talker, huh? That’s fine, mi amigo. I can talk enough for both of us.”
Still nothing.
He’s a terrible conversationalist.
I inhale deeply, stretch my arms behind my head, and sit up—but the moment I do, something in my chest tightens. The openness bothers me. Too much sky. Too much exposure.
I should be up in the trees looking through a scope. Seeing the world from the angle where I’m the threat, not the target.
With a sigh, I stand.
Time to relocate.
I grab Skippy by the collar and haul him upright, feet dangling a little off the ground. Tonight’s fashion choice—Saint’s donated sunglasses—is sitting crooked on his dirt-smeared face, giving him a grim parody of a smile. Like he knows the punchline to a joke no one’s told.
I adjust the glasses, tugging the frame straight and then realize…
he’s not sagging.
The corpse is holding its own weight.
“Well,” I murmur, yanking him slightly back and forth, “son of a bitch.”
I lower my hand off his shirt very slowly, shifting my weight to him inch by inch. The dead man sways once. Twice. I catch his shoulder to stabilize him?—
And there he is.
Standing upright.
