All on his own.
“Look at you.” I let out a sharp laugh and pat his chest. “Well done.”
It is, objectively, ridiculous.
His sunglasses slip again. I pull them off and instantly regret it.
He’s been dead about twenty-four hours. Dirt clings to his eyeballs. His lids are half open. His expression hasn’t softened with time—it’s gotten worse. Sunken. Smeared. Grim.
“Dios…” I grimace. “Put those back on.”
I slide the shades onto his face, adjusting them until he looks… well. Not good. But better.
Much better.
I scan theforest floor to make sure I haven’t dropped anything—weapon, phone, dignity—then look uphill for somewhere I can relocate to. Somewhere elevated. Hidden. With a clear view of the path where Saint will come back through.
Skippy’s sunglasses gleam faintly under the moon as I glance down.
And that’s when I notice a bush beside him, heavy with berries such an unnaturally bright blue they look like they’ve been Photoshopped into the forest.
I pluck one, roll it between my fingers, and squeeze. It collapses instantly, bleeding a darker blue smear across my thumb.
Interesting.
A twig snaps just before a bullet zips past my head.
I dive sideways as Skippy tips over like a felled tree to the ground behind me.
“¡Joder, para ya!”?* I bark. “It’s just us!”
From the trees, Saint’s voice cuts through the night.
“Who the fuck is‘us’?”
I gesture at the corpse like it should be obvious. “Me and Skippy. Who the fuck else would it be?”
She steps into view, expression sharp, eyes scanning the scene—me kneeling in the dirt, the blue smear on my thumb, Skippy eating a bullet chest-first like a loyal shield.
“Why,” she asks slowly, “was he standing like you were about to start a witch séance in the woods?”
I toss the crushed berry down and wipe my hand on my pants. “I was experimenting.”
“Unless you want to shit yourself to death,”she says, pointing at my hand, “you should wash that off. Those berries are insanely toxic.”
I lift my hand to smell it. “It’s very sweet-smelling.”
“Never mind the Oregon Trail cosplay,” she says. “Why were you foraging and playing with dead people?”
“I wasnotplaying.”
I grab Skippy by the collar again and haul him upright. “But look?—”
I balance him. Let go.
He stays standing, swaying slightly.
“Ta da! He stands.”
