Chapter 9
Even after he’d returned to his motel room, Dustin could not get the echo of Greg's voice out of his head.
He was not sad about living, damn it.
He tossed his jacket on the chair and sat on the edge of the bed. The mattress creaked. Somewhere in the wall, a pipe groaned.
He should shower. He should sleep. He should do literally anything except what he was about to do.
He pulled out his phone and opened the camera roll.
The footage from today's jump was right there, waiting. He'd set up the drone before climbing and programmed it to track his descent automatically. It was exactly what he did for every jump that wasn’t filmed by someone else. It was content for the fans, evidence for the sponsors.
Evidence of something else, now.
His thumb hovered over the play button.
He should just watch it already. He’d watched himself fall hundreds of times.
He pressed play.
The video opened on the cliff face, the drone pulling back to capture the full height of the drop. There he was, a small figure at the top, preparing to jump. The quality was good. The framing was good. Everything looked exactly like it was supposed to.
He watched himself step off the edge.
The freefall was clean. Arms out, body positioned, his form perfect. He'd done this enough times that his body knew what to do even when his brain checked out.
Hell, he’d done it blind once. Literally.
His sponsors had not been happy about that, but he’d done it.
And then he’d spent weeks convincing the internet that he was not, in fact, suicidal.
It had been ridiculous, really.
He made himself focus back on the video. On screen, the canopy bloomed open and caught air.
Then the lines snapped like they were made of paper.
He dropped.
The drone followed, tracking his descent. Eight hundred feet. Seven hundred. Six. The ground rushed up and up and—
Impact.
Dustin paused the video.
He stared at the frozen frame. His body should have been crumpled and still. Except it wasn't crumpled. And it wasn't still for long.
He pressed play and watched himself sit up, pat his chest, and move his arms.
He looked fine.
He was fine.
The video didn't make sense. Nothing about it made sense. You didn't fall eight hundred feet and walk away. You didn't hit the ground at terminal velocity and check yourself for bruises. Physics didn't work that way. Reality didn't work that way.
Dustin played it again.
And again.
And again.
Each time, he looked for the trick. The camera angle that made it look worse than it was. The hidden cut. The moment where he could tell himself oh, that's how it happened, that's what I missed.
There was nothing to miss.
He'd fallen. He'd hit. He'd survived.
You were supposed to die.
Greg's voice. Greg's ridiculous clipboard. Greg's earnest face and his talk of files and windows and cosmic paperwork.
It was insane.
It was also the only explanation Dustin had.
He closed the video and dropped his phone on the bed. His hands weren't shaking, which felt wrong. His heart rate was steady. His breathing was normal. His body was acting like nothing had happened, and maybe that was the most unsettling part of all.
Something should feel different. He should feel something.
Instead, he just felt tired.
His phone buzzed.
He’d received an email. He almost ignored it, but the preview caught his eye: APEX ENERGY – PARTNERSHIP OPPORTUNITY.
Dear Dustin,
Following the success of your recent content shoot, we're thrilled to extend an offer for an additional jump opportunity. Our marketing team believes your brand alignment with Apex Energy has significant expansion potential...
Dustin skimmed the rest. Blah blah synergy, blah blah engagement metrics, blah blah thrilled to discuss compensation packages for extended partnership.
At the bottom, in bold:
Apex Energy. Go longer, go harder, go Apex.
God, that dumb slogan.
Dustin had said it into cameras probably a hundred times by now. Smiled while he said it, too, even gave a little flirtatious wink. He’d gone viral like that.
Of course he had.
Dustin closed the email without responding and tossed his phone onto the bed.
Almost immediately, it rang.
Cathy.
Dustin picked the phone back up and watched it ring. Once. Twice.
She'd hang up soon.
That was what Dustin expected, anyway, but the phone kept ringing.
Acting on impulse, Dustin grabbed it.
“Hey,” he said.
A pause. “Dustin?”
“Yeah.” He cleared his throat. “You were calling.”
“I—yes. I was.” Another pause, longer this time. “I didn't think you'd pick up.”
Neither had he. He wasn't sure why he had.
Maybe it was the footage, still playing on loop in his head.
Maybe it was the email, with its stupid slogan and its offer of more jumps, more content, more of the life he'd built on top of his brother's grave.
Maybe it was Greg's voice—you're sad about living—still echoing somewhere behind his ribs.
Maybe he’d just needed to hear his mom’s voice.
“Well,” Dustin said. “Surprise.”
“I suppose so.” Cathy's voice was the same as always. Measured. A little flat. “How have you been?”
“Fine.” The word came out automatically. Fine. Good. Great. Never better.
He didn't mention the fall or the footage he had of it. He especially didn't mention that he'd had dinner with a supernatural entity who wanted to collect his soul.
“Fine,” Cathy repeated. “Good.”
Silence stretched between them. Dustin could hear something in the background—the neighbor's dogs barking.
Eventually Cathy spoke again. “I saw that stunt you did for Apex.”
Dustin's stomach tightened. “Yeah?”
“Quite the production. All those cameras.” Cathy paused. “Did you like how it turned out?”
“It was fine.” There was that word again. “Just another shoot.”
“I couldn't believe what happened with the duck.”
The duck.
Dustin had almost forgotten about the duck.
It felt like a lifetime ago that a giant yellow mascot had collapsed on top of him, causing everyone to run around like the world was ending while he shoved a giant webbed foot off his face. That had been his scheduled death, apparently. Smothered by a cartoon bird in sunglasses.
The universe had a shit sense of humor.
“Yeah,” he said. “That was something.”
“Are you alright?”
The question hit different today. Usually when she asked, it felt like a formality.
A checkbox on the list of things mothers were supposed to say.
But right now, sitting in this beige motel room with the footage of his impossible survival still burning behind his eyes, he almost wanted to tell her the truth.
I fell eight hundred feet without a parachute and walked away. I don't know how. I don't know why. There's a guy following me around who says he's a reaper and I'm starting to think he might not be lying.
“I'm fine,” he said instead.
“Good.” Cathy's voice was calm. Too calm.
She was always so fucking calm these days.
Sometimes Dustin wondered if she'd feel anything at all if he died tomorrow.
The conversation fizzled after that. They exchanged a few more sentences about nothing—the weather in Nevada, some folks he'd gone to high school with, an aunt Dustin hadn't seen in years—and then Cathy said she should let him go.
“Yeah,” Dustin said. “Okay.”
“Take care of yourself.”
“You too.”
He hung up.
The motel room was quiet. His phone still held footage that proved the impossible.
Dustin lay back on the bed and stared at the cracks in the ceiling.
He didn't feel better.
But then, he hadn't really expected to.