Gerrick tosses the pack to the other gunner, then starts to unstrap the hides stretched over his truck. From where he stands, Trin watches the flow of muscle beneath Gerrick’s shirt, faded chambray bleached almost white in the sun. Each time he moves, sand trickles out from the folds of his jeans, and he shakes more from his hair, dusts dirt off the hides. When he looks up, his eyes fill with the dying sunlight and flash in a way that reminds Trin of a cougar’s cry. Over the sound of the bay doors sliding shut, the gunner asks, “Who’s the mech here?”
For a moment no one answers. Beyond the doors, the crowd is muted like the sough of sand blowing against shuttered windows, and Trin is all too aware of the quiet sounds inside the garage, the low talk between the gunners, the jingle of buckl
