Below that, lines that might have been wind or clouds wrapped around his arm, while the other arm, currently dangling off the bed, was decorated in geometric shapes.
Greg couldn’t stop staring.
Humans did this: marked themselves, carried images in their skin for the rest of their lives, however short those lives might be. Greg understood tattoos as a concept, as a cultural concept.
He hadn't understood that it could look like this. Thatsomeone could turn their body into something you couldn't stop staring at.
Dustin shifted in his sleep. Murmured something. His shoulder blade moved, and the bird seemed to flex with it.
Greg's chest felt strange. Tight.
No, he had to shake himself out of his stupor.
Desperate for distraction, Greg looked around the room.
The room was small, containing only a bed, a nightstand, a TV mounted on the wall, and a chair with clothes draped over it. But in the corner, next to Dustin's duffel bag, Greg spotted his gear.
He moved toward it without thinking. The rig was laid out carefully. Harness. Container. Pilot chute.
And there were the snapped lines.
Greg set his clipboard down on the chair and knelt beside the gear.
He'd done this. He'd taken his blade and he'd cut these lines and he'd watched Dustin fall eight hundred feet and hit the ground and?—
And nothing. Dustin had walked away. Like the fall hadn't happened.
Greg ran his fingers along the evidence of his crime, almost hoping to find some trace of magic, something that would explain…
“What the fuck are you doing?”
Greg's head snapped up.
Dustin was awake. Sitting up in bed, sheets pooled around his waist, staring at Greg with an expression that was rapidly shifting from confusion to something much darker.
“I—” Greg's voice stuck in his throat. “I was just?—”
“Touching my gear.” Dustin's voice was flat.
“I can explain?—”
“Hands off my stuff.” Dustin was out of the bed now, moving toward him. He'd pulled on jeans at some point—or maybe he'd slept in them—but his chest was still bare, and Greg could see the tension coiling through his shoulders. He could also see a set of numbers, inked just above his heart.
How many tattoos did Dustin have?
No, that was not what Greg should be thinking about right now.
Dustin stopped three feet away. His eyes dropped to Greg's hands, still frozen on the damaged cords. “How did you get in here? The door was locked.”
Greg couldn't answer. His throat had closed completely.
“Do you realize how creepy you’re being? How insane this is?”
“I wasn't—I didn't?—”
“It was you, wasn’t it?” Dustin’s voice turned sharp. “You’re the reason I fell.”
“I—”
