But Dustin didn’t have time for him. Dustin’s attention was fixed on Greg.
Something about the desperation in his face gave Dustin pause.
You should be dead.
He knew that. He'd known it since the moment he'd opened his eyes in the desert and found himself whole.
But he wasn't dead. And this guy—this strange, earnest, clipboard-wielding disaster—might be the only one in the universe who could tell him why.
“Tell you what, Reaper Greg.” Dustin smiled, and this time it was almost genuine. “You lose the clipboard, and maybe I'll let you take me to dinner.”
He didn't wait for a response. He pushed through the door and walked out into the afternoon sun, heart beating steady in a chest that should have been crushed.
Behind him, through the glass, he heard a sound that might have been a sob or a scream or both.
CHAPTER 8
Greg stared at his clipboard.
It displayed his current assignment status:PENDING.
If he flipped to another page, it would display any communication Reaper HQ sent his way. Like Morrith asking for status updates.
Lose the clipboard, Dustin had said.Maybe I'll let you take me to dinner.
But Greg couldn't lose the clipboard. It was company issue—Section 4, Subsection 7 of the field manual was very clear that all reapers must maintain possession of their assigned documentation device while operating in mortal-adjacent spaces. The clipboard was his connection to headquarters, his access to files and forms, his…
His everything, really.
But now Dustin wanted to take him to dinner.
Which might be exactly what Greg needed.
For research purposes.
Dustin had now survived two deaths that should have been impossible to survive. There was clearly something unusual about him, something the file hadn't accountedfor. If Greg could just spend more time observing him, talking to him, maybe he could figure out what it was.
This was strictly professional.
Just as he was thinking that, he felt a message arrive on the clipboard before he saw it. He felt it like a faint pressure behind his eyes, like the beginning of a headache. The words materialized on the clipboard's second page a moment later:Report to my office tomorrow. We need to discuss your assignment.
Greg's stomach twisted.
Tomorrow. He had until tomorrow.
He could go to dinner tonight and gather intelligence. He could figure out why Dustin wouldn't die. And then tomorrow, he'd have answers for Morrith. Professional answers that justified the time he'd spent surveilling his target instead of completing the collection.
This was research.
This wasnecessary.
Greg straightened his tie, adjusted his glasses, tucked the clipboard under his arm, and went to find Dustin.
Dustin lay on his motel bed, staring at the ceiling, counting the cracks in the plaster because it was better than thinking.
He'd tried TV but hadn’t been able to focus. Then he’d tried scrolling through his phone. The comments on his latest video were the usual mix ofsick jump broandyou're gonna die doing this shitand one particularly detailed message from someone who wanted to do unspeakable things to his feet. He'd turned the phone face-down after that.
He should review the footage he had of his last jump—hisfall, really—, but he couldn’t make himself do it.
