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Summary
Jimmy's hands settle on Mike’s shoulders, rooted in his lap. Mike’s warm. Nothing comes into focus, still, but the lack of movement beneath him grounds him somehow. His toes dig into the loose desert sand, solidifying it. He feels Mike’s bored eyes locked on him, his only protest, and opens his mouth to say something prophetic, but his voice is gone.
“That isn’t gonna work,” Mike says.
Now with a sequel: i've got this thing that i consider my only art