Chapter 7
Dustin sat in the dirt for a long time.
He wasn't sure how long. The sun moved and shadows shifted around him. At some point a lizard skittered past his boot and he watched it go without really seeing it.
He should be dead.
The thought kept replaying in his head.
He’d known other jumpers whose gear had malfunctioned. Never had anyone been as lucky as him.
His luck was unbelievable.
He looked down at his hands. They'd stopped shaking. That was something. He turned them over, examining his palms like they belonged to someone else. No blood. No broken bones. Not even a bruise.
What the fuck?
That he wasn’t dead was one thing, but that he didn’t have any broken bones? That made him question if he’d actually jumped or if he’d just hallucinated the whole thing.
He couldn’t have.
He remembered hitting the ground. The way the world had rushed up to meet him, too fast, too fast, and then—
Nothing.
And then he was sitting up in the desert, completely fine, like the laws of physics had taken the day off.
You're in shock, he told himself. You're dissociating. This is a trauma response.
But he didn't feel like he was in shock. He felt eerily calm. Clear-headed, even. Like the part of his brain that was supposed to be screaming had simply checked out.
He needed to get up, pack his things and drive back to town.
He didn't move.
Instead he took another look around himself.
The canopy was gone—blown halfway across the desert by now, probably. His rig was fucked. The lines had snapped clean, which didn't make sense, because he'd checked them this morning. He always checked them. Never be stupid about your rig.
Tyler's voice in his head.
Dustin closed his eyes.
Had he been stupid? Had he missed something? He'd been distracted lately—the duck thing had rattled him more than he wanted to admit, and then there was that weird guy at the bar…
You were supposed to die today.
Dustin opened his eyes.
Had clipboard guy been right?
No. That was insane. That guy had been some overeager fan with a strange sense of humor. People said weird shit to him all the time. It didn't mean anything.
It couldn't mean anything.
He got to his feet. His legs held. His body worked. Everything was fine.
Everything was fine.
The drive back to town took forty minutes.
Dustin didn't remember most of it. He kept his hands at ten and two, kept his eyes on the road, kept the radio off because he couldn't handle noise right now. The desert scrolled past in shades of brown and gold and he thought about nothing.
That was a lie. He thought about Tyler.
He thought about the last time they'd jumped together. How Tyler had laughed on the way up, how he'd been talking about some girl he'd met, how he'd said race you to the bottom right before he stepped off the edge.
The town was small. One main street, a gas station, two motels, and a coffee shop that Dustin steered toward. Once he’d reached it, he pulled into a parking spot and sat in his truck for a minute.
He didn't want to go back to his motel room. The silence there would be unbearable. At least a coffee shop had background noise. People talking, mingling, working on their laptops. Proof that the world was still functioning normally even if Dustin's wasn't.
He got out of the truck.
The coffee shop was mostly empty. There was a couple chatting quietly over coffee, a young man reading a newspaper in the corner, and a bored teenager behind the counter. Dustin ordered a latte because it was the first thing his mouth decided to say.
He took his latte and leaned against the counter, not ready to sit down. Sitting down felt too permanent. Like if he stopped moving, he'd have to think about what happened, and he wasn't ready for that.
“Excuse me.”
Dustin ignored the plea, the first time.
“Excuse me. Sir?”
The voice was familiar. Annoyingly familiar.
Dustin turned his head.
Clipboard guy.
He was standing three feet away, clutching that ridiculous clipboard like it was a life raft, looking exactly as out of place as he had at the club.
What was he doing here?
And why did he have to bother Dustin today of all days?
“You know,” Dustin said slowly, “most people buy me dinner before they start stalking me.”
Clipboard guy's eye twitched. “I'm not stalking you. If you would just listen to me for five minutes, I could explain.”
“Explain why you've been following me around for three days?” Dustin took a slow sip of his latte, watching the guy over the rim. “I want something better than the nonsense you told me at the club.”
“I'm trying to do my job!”
“Which is?”
“Reaping souls.” Clipboard guy said it like Dustin was supposed to understand. Like it was obvious. “My name is Greg, and I’m a field reaper. I've told you this.”
Dustin felt something shift in his chest. Not fear, exactly. Something stranger.
You were supposed to die today.
He'd said that at the bar. Dustin had written it off as a weird joke. But now—
No. Still insane.
All of this was insane.
His grin widened, automatic, a shield sliding into place. “So you're Death, huh? I was wondering when you'd come for me.”
“Three days ago!” Clipboard guy’s—Greg’s—voice cracked. “You were supposed to die three days ago. And you didn't. And I need you to—”
“To die for you?”
“Could you please?”
The desperation in his voice was almost funny. Almost.
Dustin's gaze stayed fixed on him, searching for the joke, the hidden camera, anything that would make this make sense. He found nothing. Just earnest, panicked sincerity.
“Wow.” Dustin laughed. It came out sharper than he intended. “That's the most direct anyone's ever been with me.”
“That's not—I don't mean—” Greg was struggling now, color rising in his cheeks in a way that made Dustin want to mess with him even more. “This isn't a joke. This is serious. This is my job.”
“And you're very cute doing it, but you really need to rethink how you approach people.”
Greg made a strangled sound. “You don't understand! You're my first solo assignment and you're three days overdue!”
“That sounds like a you problem.”
“It's a cosmic problem! It's a problem with the natural order!” His voice cracked again. “People don't just survive their scheduled deaths! You can't do that!”
“Can't do what?” Dustin pushed off the counter, heading for the door. He needed air. He needed to be anywhere but here. “Keep living? Tough luck. I don't mean to check out any time soon.”
“Wait!” Footsteps behind him, frantic. “You can't just walk away from this!”
Dustin paused at the door. Glanced back.
Greg was standing in the middle of the coffee shop, clipboard raised like a weapon, looking like he was about two seconds from a complete meltdown. The couple in the corner was staring. The teenager behind the counter had stopped pretending to wipe things down, shooting Dustin an odd look.
But Dustin didn’t have time for him. Dustin’s attention was fixed on Greg.
Something about the desperation in his face gave Dustin pause.
You should be dead.
He knew that. He'd known it since the moment he'd opened his eyes in the desert and found himself whole.
But he wasn't dead. And this guy—this strange, earnest, clipboard-wielding disaster—might be the only one in the universe who could tell him why.
“Tell you what, Reaper Greg.” Dustin smiled, and this time it was almost genuine. “You lose the clipboard, and maybe I'll let you take me to dinner.”
He didn't wait for a response. He pushed through the door and walked out into the afternoon sun, heart beating steady in a chest that should have been crushed.
Behind him, through the glass, he heard a sound that might have been a sob or a scream or both.