A pause. “Dustin?”
“Yeah.” He cleared his throat. “You were calling.”
“I—yes. I was.” Another pause, longer this time. “I didn't think you'd pick up.”
Neither had he. He wasn't sure why he had. Maybe it was the footage, still playing on loop in his head. Maybe it was the email, with its stupid slogan and its offer of more jumps, more content, more of the life he'd built on top of his brother's grave. Maybe it was Greg's voice—you're sad about living—still echoing somewhere behind his ribs.
Maybe he’d just needed to hear his mom’s voice.
“Well,” Dustin said. “Surprise.”
“I suppose so.” Cathy's voice was the same as always. Measured. A little flat. “How have you been?”
“Fine.” The word came out automatically.Fine. Good. Great. Never better.
He didn't mention the fall or the footage he had of it. He especially didn't mention that he'd had dinner with a supernatural entity who wanted to collect his soul.
“Fine,” Cathy repeated. “Good.”
Silence stretched between them. Dustin could hear something in the background—the neighbor's dogs barking.
Eventually Cathy spoke again. “I saw that stunt you did for Apex.”
Dustin's stomach tightened. “Yeah?”
“Quite the production. All those cameras.” Cathy paused. “Did you like how it turned out?”
“It was fine.” There was that word again. “Just another shoot.”
“I couldn't believe what happened with the duck.”
The duck.
Dustin had almost forgotten about the duck.
It felt like a lifetime ago that a giant yellow mascot had collapsed on top of him, causing everyone to run around like the world was ending while he shoved a giant webbed foot off his face. That had been his scheduled death, apparently. Smothered by a cartoon bird in sunglasses.
The universe had a shit sense of humor.
“Yeah,” he said. “That was something.”
“Are you alright?”
The question hit different today. Usually when she asked, it felt like a formality. A checkboxon the list of things mothers were supposed to say. But right now, sitting in this beige motel room with the footage of his impossible survival still burning behind his eyes, he almost wanted to tell her the truth.
I fell eight hundred feet without a parachute and walked away. I don't know how. I don't know why. There's a guy following me around who says he's a reaper and I'm starting to think he might not be lying.
“I'm fine,” he said instead.
“Good.” Cathy's voice was calm. Too calm.
She was always so fucking calm these days.
Sometimes Dustin wondered if she'd feel anything at all if he died tomorrow.
The conversation fizzled after that. They exchanged a few more sentences about nothing—the weather in Nevada, some folks he'd gone to high school with, an aunt Dustin hadn't seen in years—and then Cathy said she should let him go.
“Yeah,” Dustin said. “Okay.”
