“They very much died.”
Greg didn't think, he just spoke. “You can't do that.”
Dustin looked amused. “Pretty sure I can. I just agreed to it.”
“It's a fifty percent fatality rate!”
“Look at you, doing math.”
“This isn't funny.” Greg's voice came out sharper than he intended. “You're telling me you just committed to something that has killed half of everyone who attempted it, and you're treating it like—like?—”
“Like it doesn't matter?” Dustin rosefrom the bed, and suddenly they were very close. “Because it doesn't. Not to me.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don't die, sunshine.” Dustin spread his arms. “You've seen it. The duck, the parachute, the eight-hundred-foot fall. Something keeps me alive whether I want it to or not.”
“That might not last forever,” Greg said quietly.
“Then I guess I'd better do the fun stuff while I can.”
The words cut Greg between the ribs.
“When's the jump?” he asked.
Dustin glanced at his phone. “In three weeks. They want to film it for their fall campaign.”
Three weeks.
Twenty-one days.
Greg didn't know why he was counting. It shouldn't matter. By every metric that mattered, Dustin was on borrowed time—a soul that should have crossed over already, lingering only because of some unnatural interference. Finding that interference and eliminating it was Greg's job. It was what he was made for.
Attachments don't end well. For anyone.
“Hey.” Dustin's voice was softer now. “You okay? You look like you're buffering.”
“I'm fine.”
“You're very obviously not fine.”
“I'm—” Greg stopped. He didn't know how to finish that sentence.
Dustin stepped closer. “What did they actually say to you at reaper HQ? You've been weird since you got back.”
“I got some standard supervisory feedback.”
“You're still a terrible liar.”
“I'm not lying.”
“Your left eye is twitching.”
Greg's hand flew to his face involuntarily. Dustin laughed—a real laugh this time, warm and surprised.
“You're ridiculous,” Dustin said, and there was something almost fond in his voice.
“I prefer 'thorough.'“
