“Pretty sure from my perspective it isn’t.”
His lips twitch, then tighten again as I probe deeper.
I find the bullet by feel, a hard lump wedged in damaged tissue. I switch to a small pair of tweezers from the box and slowly work the metal free. Every millimeter I move, he tenses and releases, riding the discomfort with a patience that makesme weirdly proud of him, which is ridiculous, because we just met.
Finally, the bullet slides free with a soft, wet pop.
“There,” I breathe, holding up the twisted piece of metal. “Ha. One bullet removed. Who’s the scientist now?”
He exhales so sharply it’s almost a laugh and a groan at once. His body relaxes beneath my touch, muscles loosening as if a clamp’s unlatched.
I set the bullet aside on a flat stone, then press a clean folded cloth over the wound.
“Keep pressure on this for a minute,” I say. “I want to see something.”
He presses his own hand over the cloth before he slowly eases it away. As he does so, I watch in fascinated silence as the torn flesh begins to draw together. The edges pull inward, knitting with unnatural speed. The bleeding slows. The heat shifts from a sharp fever to a more functional warmth.
“You heal,” I say softly, unable to keep the awe from my voice, “like something out of a comic book.”
“It’s just biology,” he replies. “Mine, not yours.”
“It’s incredible,” I insist.
He looks at me then, really looks, and his gaze sharpens. It’s not just cautious anymore. It’s considering.
“My name,” he says, voice quieter now, “is Boone.”
It lands with surprising weight. A real name. Not a title. Not a label in a field report. An introduction.
“Boone,” I repeat, tasting the sound carefully. It suits him. Solid, grounded, a little rough at the edges. “Hi. I’m Elias. But you probably already know that, right?”
“I do,” he says. “You talk to yourself a lot.”
My cheeks ignite. “That’s slander.”
He huffs. “You narrated an entire ascent last week. To a tree. In detail.”
I groan and cover my face with one hand for a second. “Of course you heard that.”
“I hear many things.” He pauses. “Most are less entertaining.”
It’s possible that I’ll never recover from the knowledge that Bigfoot has heard me complain about my own knees.
When I lower my hand, he’s still watching me. His gaze has gone intense again, like he’s mapping my features, storing them away. It’s unnerving and exhilarating at once. My stomach flutters traitorously.
“That is… a lot of staring,” I say faintly.
“I’m deciding,” he says.
“Deciding what?”
“Whether I regret letting you see me.”
The honesty in it hits like a punch. I forget to breathe for half a second.
“And?” I ask.
His eyes search mine for a long moment.
