I lean back against the wall, watching her closely as she slips into her panties. It’s a great show, sure, but delivery matters here. “It’s…progressing.”
“That is not specific enough.”
“Scientifically speaking, we’re still in the early stages. It hasn’t even been twenty-four hours. There were a couple of bones floating. Nothing dramatic, though, but that’s good and to be expected. Gas buildup shifts things around. The rest is still submerged.”
Alma pales slightly, lips parting and closing multiple times before she finally murmurs a, “Floating?”
“Lightly,” I clarify. “More of a gentle bob.”
She closes her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose, and exhales profoundly. “Crew…”
“What? I’m being accurate,” I chuckle.
“I don’t need adjectives.”
“Noted. No whimsical language attached to skeletal movement.”
That earns me a pointed look, though it’s softer than I’m sure she intended for it to be.
“The pit’s doing what it’s supposed to,” I continue, hoping to ease some of her anxiety. “Sulfur’s breaking everything down. It just takes time. A few more days and we’ll be in a very different position.”
Blowing out another breath between her lips, she falls onto the bed. “I can’t believe this is our morning conversation.”
“I can. It’s very on-brand for us.” She wants to laugh, that much is clear, prompting me to push off the wall and step closer. I don’t crowd her, just close the space enough that she doesn’t feel alone. “There’s no rush, okay? No one’s hiking out there this time of year. No one’s looking for anything in that direction. It’s contained, I promise.”
Alma studies my face, those deep brown eyes searching for any cracks in my armor. “What was it like?”
The question isn’t about the science. Not at all. “It wasn’t him,” I say after a moment. “Not anymore. Now he’s just matter reacting to the environment.”
She swallows, the gulp visible, but something in her posture eases at that little morsel of information. “Good,” she says quietly.
There’s a strange domesticity to this, standing half-dressed in a cabin, discussing chemical acceleration of decay like we’re planning a garden renovation.
“I should probably apologize,” I add as I finally pull on my shirt.
“For what?”
“For the fact that your rebound experience includes phrases likegas buildup.”
Alma’s mouth twitches. “You arenotallowed to call yourself that.”
“What? I’m self-aware.”
“Not in this case. You’re far from a rebound. What youare,though is disturbingly calm, and I don’t know how to feel about that despite knowing that’s your default setting.”
I tilt my head, eyes narrowing humorously. “Would you prefer I pace and hyperventilate?”
“No.”
“Then cool as a cucumber is what you’re getting.”
Alma rises from the unmade bed and steps closer, palpable heat lingering just beneath the surface. Her hand lightly brushes my forearm, but neither of us pretends it’s accidental.
“When should we go back again?” she questions.
“Tomorrow,” I confirm. “Just a quick check, make sure nothing surfaces unexpectedly.”
“Nothing surfaces unexpectedly,” she echoes, as if trying the phrase on for size. “That’s a horrifying sentence.”
