The ferry chewed across the channel hard enough that Jordan turned green by the second mile. He spent the rest of the crossing draped over the stern rail, dictating his will to anyone within earshot, and Javier wrote every word of it in the waterproof notebook. Belle informed him that nothing he owned was worth inheriting. Jordan thanked her for the feedback and then threw up into the Pacific.
I stood at the bow and let the wind try to peel my face off. Seventeen days and change glowed at the edge of my vision, and the vault held four cups of Belle's butterscotch from last night, which Misato had already called irresponsible twice this morning. The graft sat warm under my scars. Eight rings burned steady in the back of my skull, and the ninth flickered somewhere behind me on the deck in a leather jacket, refusing to commit to anything.
