Unbuttoning his shirt, Gerrick glances at the pallet, the crates, the one unshuttered window that looks out at the junkyard behind the waystation. “Kind of tight in here,” he says, stepping over the pallet to stand in front of the window. He drops his shirt to the floor in a rustle of sand and fabric and the broad expanse of his back gleams faintly in the low light. Unbuckling his belt, Gerrick unzips his jeans and rubs his hands down the small paunch of his lower belly. His fingers push his briefs down and though Trin can’t see anything from where he stands, he can imagine all too well what Gerrick’s toying with as he looks out over the rusted cars and scrapped metal below. With a laugh, the gunner adds, “Just the way I like it. Close the door, kid.”
Trin can’t obey fast enough. The soun
