“Still working on that first assignment,” he said.
“Yikes.” She was already gone.
Greg looked back at the file.
Status: Pending.
Morrith's words kept echoing in his head.Sometimes death needs a little help. That's what we're here for.
But thatwasn'twhat they were here for. That wasn't what Greg had trained for. Reapers didn't cause death.They honored it. They witnessed it. They shepherded souls through the most profound transition of existence with compassion and dignity.
Never before had someone told him he’d have to cut parachute lines.
Greg pressed his palms against his eyes.
He'd spent the last two days researching. Dustin had social media accounts full of videos and photos and comments from thousands of strangers who watched him throw himself off things. Greg had watched all of it. Every jump. Every interview. Every behind-the-scenes clip where Dustin laughed at danger and flirted with the camera and never once looked like someone who was afraid to die.
He'd also found older videos. Videos that showed someone else alongside Dustin. A twin brother named Tyler who shared Dustin’s smile as well as his recklessness.
Tyler's file had been closed three years ago. Greg had checked.
“You're still thinking about it.”
Greg startled. Morrith was standing at the entrance to his cubicle, coffee in hand, expression unreadable.
“I'm trying to figure out the right approach,” Greg said.
“The right approach is completion.” Morrith took a sip of his coffee. “I don't care how it happens. I care that it happens.”
“But what if?—”
“Greg.” Morrith's voice was tired. “I vouched for you. I told the department you were ready for fieldwork. Every day that file stays open, we run the risk of Oversight taking a closer look at this department, and trust me, nobody wants that.”
“I understand, sir.”
Morrith shot him a long look. “Your target is jumping again tomorrow. Somewhere in Nevada.”
Greg's stomach dropped. “How do you know that?”
“It's my job to know. It's your job to finish this. Don't make me reassign it to someone who will.”
Morrith walked away.
Greg sat very still for a long moment.
Then he pulled up Dustin's location.
Nevada was hot.
Greg crouched behind a rock formation about fifty yards from Dustin's truck and wondered, not for the first time, what the hell he was doing.
Only a short while ago he'd been a promising new field reaper with a sacred calling and a carefully rehearsed speech about the beauty of transition. Now he was hiding behind a boulder in the desert, sweating through his button-down, waiting for a human to stop paying attention to his gear so Greg could sabotage it.
This was not in the training manual.
He adjusted his glasses and peered around the edge of the rock. Dustin was there, alone, laying out his equipment on a tarp beside his truck. There wasn’t any crew this time, and no cameras except for a drone case he hadn't opened yet. Just a man, his rig, and eight hundred feet of cliff.
Greg had gotten here first—which hadn’t been easy. When he couldn’t teleport himself to a human target, he needed to use a door as his anchor point, and so he’d emerged from a maintenance shed about a quarter mile away. And then he’d had to hike throughthe scrub brush to find a hiding spot before Dustin arrived. His shoes were not meant for hiking.
