Words from Jonas, cross-legged on an upturned tabletop, blending, sliver of shade against the only wall of a dead restaurant. Half his rifle receiver in one hand, a tiny brush in the other. Exorcising imaginary grit. Busy work.
Waiting for the solar cells to charge my uplink. Sodden gum-stuck chipboard exuding the imperceptible breath of dead tourists; little grey splotches of half-life decay; greasy food, vacation stress, and subsidized dental work. I hadn’t pegged him for a racist. Sort of gave me the willies, made me wonder what else I’d missed, if I’d been slipping.
“You killed him