By the time she finally says, “Break,” I am in a meaningful relationship with death.
Not actual death.
Obviously.
I am aware of the distinction. I have read pamphlets.
But a dramatic part of my soul has lain down on the yard and is asking to be remembered fondly.
Pippa helps me out of the BA set before I can embarrass myself by fumbling with the straps for too long. Her hands are quick and impersonal. The cylinder comes off my back, and I experience relief so profound it nearly becomes religious.
“Water,” she says.
“Yes.”
“Sit if you need to.”
“I’m fine.”
She gives me a look.
“I’m going to sit,” I amend.
“Good choice.”
I get water from the bottle someone points me towards and make it as far as the low wall just outside the garage before my legs vote for an extra bank holiday. I slide down to sit on the concrete, back against the wall, one knee bent, helmet beside me, face cooling in the air.
Inside, the crew has shifted into some other rhythm. Kit being moved. Doors opening. Someone laughing. Pippa’s voice, low and clear, saying something about lunch like the last hour has not stripped me down to my component parts.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
I stare at Chloe’s name for a second, considering whether I have enough pride left to let it ring out.
Apparently not.
I answer. “I am calling from beyond the veil.”
“Oh, good,” Chloe says. “You’re alive.”
“Technically.”
“You sound awful.”
“I’ve been professionally developed.”
There is a pause.
Then she says, “I’m putting you on video.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Chloe.”
Too late.
Her face appears, far too bright and delighted for a woman indoors with access to chairs. Then another face leans into frame beside her.
