Robin's Diner wasn't the best spot in town, or in town at all. Rather, six miles from Gravity Falls' borders; a ways off by foot, but hardly a concern with Pacifica's limousine on hand. It was a little spot, obscure on the side of the road, leading some place equally side-glanced, equally obscure. A modest restaurant not unlike Greasy's Diner; currently closed for repairs, what with the Goblin-sized hole in its walls, forcing the twins and their severely picky friend to seek service elsewhere.

Rows of double booths draped in red upholstery, checkered vinyl flooring and something that smelled like rubber when they set foot inside. The chef was the first thing seen when entering Robin's, being his station lay front-and-center for customers to observe his craftsmanship. Or, " Craps-man-ship," Pacifica mocked with a roll of the eye after Mabel's own ogling; Robin's hadn't been her idea. Not by a long-shot.

Dipper tucked his elbow into the edge of Pacifica's arm then- no force behind it. Hardly any heat. He'd always attest to being a bit more gentle handling girls, even terribly well-off Northwests who deserved it, and overwhelmingly sturdy Corduroys who could take it. Though, despite his own assurance, may actually lay in the fact that, at 14-going-on-15, Dipper was humiliatingly lithe. Even so, the curve of his jaw promised a slight compensation in size as time passed, or at least an edge to his bonny babyface.

Still, he'd elbowed her in all her snootiness, with a force "for girls," so when she went to glare at him in effect, he felt no guilt glaring back. Pacifica was a stubborn, pocket-sized boar, even as she'd spread her wings in rebellion against her parents; still old money. Always old money. Old money had a way about turning its nose up at things unlike caviar, or Salvatore Ferragamo, or a glass of Domaine de la Romanee-Conti on a long-awaited getaway to Normandy, France.

The last couple of years had been dedicated- on her part- to an exposure of sorts, into the wide, open ranges of countryside bumkins, spit-buckets and gas stations. In comparison to where she'd began almost two years ago, Mabel could easily attest to her progress. Dipper, however, pointed out -in comparison to ordinary people- she was still way, way behind. Mabel encouraged him to be patient with her. How could he, though? He'd never understood living in a mansion, served hand and foot, preened and trained the way she'd been. He'd never understood how- even drilled with the natural place of a Northwest, their inherent prowess, ect. ect.- someone could turn out so spoiled.

The look he gave her- the look she gave back- lasted only a moment.

Who dropped their gaze first- Dipper; It'd been Dipper - didn't rightfully matter. Not when Mabel trailed them like ducklings, hurrying towards an empty booth. They sat down in a flurry, Mabel having squeezed them all onto one side, so Dipper's leg hung off the cushion and Pacifica's hair tickled his ear. He turned, by which she mimicked, and gave her one last, cautionary glare for her attitude. Any other day, Pacifica would've bitten his head off, if it weren't the last night they'd be spending together until next summer. She let it pass, instead huffing an exaggerated sigh at the unyielding fabric she currently sat on. It wasn't worth testing the precarious existence that was their friendship, which- despite itself- was a rather strong bond.

If one or the other was just a bit softer around the edges, perhaps there could have blossomed something more.

The waitress came up with a pen and notepad; a fat miss with paper-thin hair, cropped face like a man, square in the chin, and sleek around the eyes. Her lips smeared pink despite tangerine complexion, loud with color. Betty was her name.

"Betty." Pacifica thought snidely. What a plebe name." Something self-satisfying reared its head inside her. She stifled a snort, instead asking if they served truffles and caviar.

It was supposed to be a pleasant night out with his sister. That had been the plan.

They didn't serve caviar; She'd make do with a back-alley salad, composed of bare-fisted lettuce and olives. Dipper ordered a bacon-burger; Pacifica sniffed. Not congested; not with her perfect nose. Someone like her had people hired to make sure she was never caught dead with a runny nose, or a need to blow it. Rather, she'd sniffed, upright and fancy, because only peasants ordered bacon-burgers, apparently. Mabel ordered pancakes and a bucket of syrup, as well as their finest stash of sprinkles, which Betty tried to explain they didn't have. It only prompted Mabel to lean over both Dipper and Pacifica, slip a crumpled paper from her wallet, and slyly tuck it into the folds of the waitress's notepad with a wink. Betty examined it.

Mabe-bucks .

She looked at Mabel, who had her head hammocked in the webbing of her fingers very smugly, only to pocket the strange currency and back away slowly. Which-. Alright, embarrassing . Dipper was used to it. Pacifica, however, looked slightly mortified by her tacky (if you were poor, of course) attempt at bribery. She sank in her seat.

"Oh my god. This is like-. Like, ugh . You guys are so lucky I can't make it to your going-away party tomorrow, or I wouldn't even be here."

"Are we lucky you're here, or are we lucky you won't be, tomorrow?" Dipper quipped back easily, earning himself a sideways stomp of his right foot. He yelped, jerking at the heel grinding down on the toes of his Converse; some strappy Valentino Garavani, with a pointed tip really not meant for walking in, but rather an unregistered weapon, especially with the way it nearly shot through Dipper's shoe entirely. He elbowed her more freely this time, and-. A bit more force than "for girls." Embarrassingly so, when it hardly did more than irritate the other.

"Should I tell Albert not to deliver your birthday present on my behalf, or are you going to stop being such a Plebian?" Pacifica freed his foot.

"What, is that a threat ?" Dipper grit. He reached down, bringing his foot to rest awkwardly over his lap. He massaged it tenderly, feeling the exact point of contact between bone and high heel, as well as a throbbing rise on his pinky toe. He frowned. "Not all of us cease to exist without Louis Vuitton scarves around our necks."

"Maybe, but it makes someone as invisible as you at least mildly noticeable."

That-.

Hurt .

A little.

Dipper snorted, rolling his eyes.

"Actually, I was thinking next summer could be more- I don't know- Sweatpants-y? "

If the abashed horror strewn about Pacifica's face wasn't satisfying enough, the scratch of her nails cutting into rubberwood did the trick. She had her finger raised and pointed between his eyes, looking like a taunted bull.

"Don't you dare-! " Pacifica began, to which Dipper was more than ready to dive into. Truth be told, this was considered a less explosive interaction between the two; It hadn't ended in potential law-suits, and certainly not the one time they sort of tussled. Which, Dipper assured afterwards, had been him holding back. She wouldn't have pinned him otherwise.

Mabel cut in though, ever the peace-keeper between her snarky brother and their pompous treat of a friend.

"Alright, alright, hey. " She drew out sweetly, drumming the table like a thing of bongos. The smile she wore- finally free of braces and the slight uneven ground her teeth usually settled on- was bright and forgiving. When she reached over Pacifica to snag the fur of Dipper's cap, yanking it over his eyes playfully, it allowed nothing but room for lighthearted fun. Dipper, despite the grumble burning his throat, could only tilt his hat back up and sigh at the way she'd draped her arm over Pacifica's shoulder, clambering even farther to pull at the sleeve of his shirt and tug him close.

"We're all buddies here, right guys?" She bumped her hip against Pacifica, therefore jostling Dipper. Even the queen of paparazzi and flutes of champagne was weak to her spotless soul; she sniffed once more before going lax. " Right! So tonight, let's just have a good time, okay? We can hit the arcade after this, or go for a movie-."

" Lame ." Pacifica chimed in.

"- Or, watch Runway fails." Mabel tempted in response. The suggestion held weight for all of two seconds before Dipper countered with a " Like Hell I will." Again, Pacifica stomped his foot, miraculously in the same spot.

" Oh, fuck! "

" Serf ." She called without sparing a glance. Her elbow went up to prop her chin, more for the brilliant angle it put her profile at, and less to show Mabel her full attention.

"Do you have a fucking thesaurus just dedicated to calling people poor ?" Dipper spat. Pacifica shrugged.

"Must be in my DNA; You come within thirty feet, and my skin just crawls with your impecuniousness."

" Anyways ," Mabel cut in once more, tinged at the gills with annoyance. It was always pulling teeth with those two in the same room, childhood friends or not. "We should do something after this. I'm thinking glitter-rave-dance-party back at the Shack; Who's in?"

No one.

No one was in.

There was hardly breath for objection, not when their attention was drawn elsewhere.

Something tacky about Robin's Diner (Pacifica could attest) was the golden bell hanging just a corner above its door. A shrill little thing banged up on its side that'd made her toes curl instinctively. What with the tight " Ding-a-ling" it had supplied, an octave above the very same bell once used against her, disposed of since losing its effects ( Mostly) . Even now, Pacifica felt an abrasive zap up her spine, and found she sat just an inch taller, eyes set expectantly on the sound's origins.

Dipper gave a sympathetic side-glance, followed by a squeeze of the hand.

Her posture eased.

The door gave way to yet another customer. A tall, ghoulish man unlike your average Joe. An unfortunately unattractive Joe with an odd set about his jaw; overbite. His eyes didn't quite settle in one direction; there was a slight cross, or rather a reflection, being they veered away from one another like magnets. Not to mention his skin, which was both pale and tinged a sickly green. He carried himself with an air of... disturbance. Something a bit loose in the mind. Not crazy . Perhaps eroding. Suddenly, it felt ridiculously inappropriate to have looked towards the door at all, now that the group caught themselves staring. Only an instance, the man slinking inside with long, broad strides, before their gazes retracted themselves.

" O-M-G ." Pacifica whispered to the twins simply, earning a shush from both.

Whatever comment further she had on his looks were quickly snatched when the waitress set their food before them. Betty slid the dishes down the line to each participant, plates a bit wide with three people all on one side. Still, they managed well enough, although Mabel's pancakes were sticky, and Dipper's arm kept knocking into Pacifica when he lifted his burger, and Pacifica insisted they keep their elbows off the table at all times. They began their dissatisfying meals and discussed tomorrow's evening plans.

Grunkle Stan, for once in his life, had apparently spent more than a fistful of cash on their birthday this year. No more hand-made decorations, or easy-bake-oven cakes. He promised a real, authentic party, considering last year's blowout; kiddie-goat rides and pin-the-tail-on-the-Soos, which Stan still hadn't apologized for, and Soos hadn't rightfully lashed out about. He promised "a serious upgrade," which Mabel was definitely looking forward to. Dipper didn't have the heart to warn not to hold her breath, especially when she started gushing over Stan's propaganda.

Pacifica, sadly, couldn't make it; family trip to the Bahamas. Which she assured would be the most boring, most low-budget vacation they'd had since the loss of much of their fortune. "Much," to average people like Dipper and Mabel. "About 7 percent," in actuality. Dipper rolled his eyes at her, trying to tune out her pointless whine of "Too much sun," and "Too much sand," and "Too much sea." God, she could be such a snob-.

" Oh my god guys, don't look now ." Pacifica cut herself off, dropping her voice to an uncharacteristic whisper. " That guy was totally checking me out." Her eyes shifted up, then away, giving clear directions for their gazes. Of course they looked. There, seated four booths up and to the left, sat Unaverage Joe, tediously picking at a roll of bread. His forehead furrowed in concentration as he mumbled; pick after pick after pick of bread, making for himself a tiny mountain of crumbs. Dipper raised a brow.

"Him?" Mabel's finger went up to point; Pacifica batted it down.

"I said don't look!" She hissed, slouching in her seat. "And definitely don't point! Yikes, Mabel!"

"Do you really expect us to not look when you just said-?" Pacifica, for the third time, stomped his foot, once more in the same spot. " Jesus , I-! Stop fucking doing that!" Dipper angled himself away, reaching down to feel the impressive indent she made of his shoe; one more blow and he might as well walk around in swiss cheese.

" Lower your voice, dummy. Oh-. He just looked again." The twins' eyes led up quickly. Mumbling, mumbling, mumbling, picking at his bread with burning intensity, certainly not scoping anyone out. Not with the concentration he had trained on his little meal. Dipper scoffed.

"You think everyone's looking at you." He sneered. To which Pacifica agreed, being (in her words) how could they not? Still, what a burden ; creepy men making eyes at her from across the diner. Her? A refined, pure-bred? Disgusting.

"Ugh, just look at him."

"You said not to look." Dipper's foot was, thankfully, turned out from under the table, making it impossible for her to give yet another stomp for his snarky remark. She placed a hand under his chin.

" Well now I'm telling you ," Her hand shot his jaw up. " To look ." Dipper's face sat trapped in her palm, barred by thumb and index, so he could no more than grunt, bare his teeth in a discomforted grimace, and stare ahead at the man who- Pacifica had terrible fucking timing- had taken a moment away from his roll to look at them; more than likely alerted by the group's conspicuous whispers and Dipper's sudden struggling.

Pacifica let out a high " oop-, " releasing Dipper's face entirely to act casual and mind her own business . She'd snapped at them for being obvious. For that, and the frightening way this strange man had locked eyes- wetting his finger and dabbing it in bits of bread, only to lick them away; perhaps his overbite was less unfortunate a vanity, and more practicality. The front row looked to be so far out, his molars probably didn't align comfortably enough to chew- Dipper really let her have it. Elbow to the side, a sharp point that finally- finally- had some kind of effect. Pacifica hissed, rubbing at her ribs with a dirty glare, only to smack the top of his head so hard it knocked his fur hat clean off.

" Jackass ." She snarled curtly.

"Oh, don't you mean impoverished or something?" Dipper spat, ruffled feathers and all. Pacifica's lips hardened into a tight line that was definitely- definitely- not fighting back a laugh- not with Dipper's face looking so huffy; pert cheeks and wrinkled nose- and gaze piercing; serious. Her shoulders squared.

"My bad. What I meant was a total pus-." Was as far as she got. A slight strain of upholstery- the uncoordinated shuffle of lanky arms and legs- out the booth and down the aisle, Mr. Unaverage Joe started. All three children went stiff- silent- as the rigid lines of their backs shot ice through their fingers. Mr. Joe had already looked quite tall, but only became taller as he seemingly approached them. It was an odd feeling to be sure, by ways Pacifica finally snapped her mouth shut, and Dipper tucked his feet back under the table. All three children stared, up until Mr. Joe got within spitting distance, at which point they averted their gazes and pretended not to see him at all.

The man made his staggered, slouched journey to their table in what couldn't have been more than an instance. Regardless, the twins and Pacifica felt terribly cautious. Dipper nudged Pacifica, who nudged Mabel, encouraging her to shuffle a bit farther into the booth. Once done, his leg still hung off the cushion a bit, but less so.

Mr. Joe bent down and scooped up Dipper's hat.

" Yours ." The man stated matter-of-factly with an outstretched arm, lending the boy his cap. His voice was gruff; scratchy, like he hadn't the energy to cough. It was low in a way that reverberated through the chest and out the mouth, not before making a slow climb up the longues. Shocked- unreasonably discomforted by this stranger he'd previously compared to a goblin- Dipper was prompted to move only after receiving a subtle poke to his side. He cleared his throat.

"Oh- um. Thank- uh. Thanks. That's, well-. Yeah, uh. Thanks ." He reached for his hat; slow at first- cautious as to not brush skin to skin- before inevitably snatching it with lightning speed. Dipper slapped it down on his head; the fur made like eyelashes, obscuring his gaze with subtle framing. His eyes, blown wide, made him out like prey.

"Not a problem; nice hat." The man replied with a finger angled to address it. Not touching, but gesturing in such a way he might as well have. "Got a buddy down in Portland that manufactures fur caps like that. Comfy, aren't they?"

Pacifica let out a quiet groan, leaning her chin in the palm of her hand. Was this guy trying to strike up a conversation? Oh, god.

"Uh... Yeah. They're uh, very seasonal." The man nodded at Dipper's response, looking thoughtful.

"Very seasonal. Where'd you buy yours at? I've been looking to snatch one for myself, but nothing real high-quality like yours. Is it hand-made?"

"I, uh-," Dipper cleared his throat once more, twiddling his thumbs. He shifted, trying to recede farther into the booth, only to realize there wasn't room left to spare. "Not sure; it- um. Gift . It was a gift."

"Oh?" The man inquired, placing himself- damn it damn it damn it - in a separate booth to the left of them. His knees were boney here, angled above the waist, with hands so wide they completely engulfed either nub. "Well, it suits you just fine . Your friend must have very good taste."

"She... does." Dipper tilted his eyes back for inspiration from either of the girls, hoping for some kind of out. Lonely men trying to hang out with the young folk wasn't exactly his idea of fun. Pacifica and Mabel- those traitors - were busily checking their phones, both with their headphones in. They both brought headphones. Those goddamn-.

"So, where are you from exactly? I come here most-every night, and I've never seen your liking around." The tall man, one eye trained on Dipper, the other slightly off, placed a hand under his chin, contemplating. "You don't look like a real country-boy; how far off are you? Just visiting the town?"

"Well I'm-. I've lived here a while. But, uh. I don't really... consider myself a country boy, I guess." There was a slight pause; Dipper tried to resettle himself. "Uh-. Do... you? Live around here, I mean."

Mr. Joe seemed surprised, receiving a question of his own. Not one he wasn't willing to answer, of course.

"Me? Oh, no, no, no. I live out on the east-coast; got some real-estate up here in Roadkill I like to use as a little getaway from time-to-time. Been staying over for the past four months or so. I live down in Florida."

"Oh." Dipper said plainly. He felt entirely stupid to think there was material for conversation, even as this man sucked every topic dry. "That's nice."

"It is. " The man insisted. "Right in the sunshine state. Smack-dab by the sea line. You like dogs?" Dipper nodded hesitantly. "I've got a whole litter at my place; breeding's not cheap, but they sell 200 a pup, can you believe it? It's a real easy life; real easy."

Something about the way he'd said that made Dipper's skin crawl. He nodded again, not quite sure what could possibly be said to dig his way out of their interaction entirely.

"Name's Turner, by the by. Friends call me 8-Ball." He stuck his hand out to the other, who, despite his own better judgement, took it hesitantly.

"Dipper." He replied, giving one swift jerk of the wrist before releasing 8-Ball's hand; rode it down his pant leg in an effort to wear away the tingling it left on his palm.

" Dipper? Looks like we've both got ourselves a bit of an alias, ay there? What about the name your parents gave you?" 8-Ball asked with a hum.

"I-... I just go by Dipper, actually."

" Dipper... ?" The man rolled his hand through the air, prompting him farther. Dipper's lips pressed into a straight line, looking over his shoulder once again; Pacifica was highly invested in some deep-dished celebrity gossip channel. Mabel was texting one of the many boys in her contacts. He sighed.

"Pines." Dipper replied, trying to get comfortable when he, disheartened and defeated, angled himself to address the man more fully. "And, you-?"

"Oh, Pines? Really?" 8-Ball leaned in on his knees. A kind of light shone behind his eye with his next question. He stretched his arms out, waving them dismissively. "Wait, wait, wait. How old are you exactly?"

"Oh- uh. Well, technically 14."

" Technically ?" 8-Ball asked. Dipper hummed.

"I'll be 15 tomorrow."

8-Ball whistled at that, pulling himself back in his seat. He shook his head, riding a hand down his face and pulling oddly at his lower lip that, quite frankly, hung loose like a moping fish.

" 15? Well, you'll have to give your parents my regards, then. Haven't seen them since before you were conceived."

Which-.

What?

Wait, what?

"My... Parents ?" Dipper asked with a tilt of the head. 8-Ball nodded.

"Mmm-hmm. You're a Pines, right? I used to be pretty close with a few, back when I still sold real-estate."

Dipper shuffled in his seat, feeling all the more uncomfortable. Still, something natural occurred inside him; a sense of intrigue. He knew his parents? Regardless of the strain hardening his leg-muscles, Dipper found the knowledge put an odd side of him at ease, seemingly against his will.

"I've... They've never mentioned you." The statement didn't quite fit his mouth, tumbling like bricks from his tongue. A pause of the lips, and 8-Ball was quick to dismiss the statement. He replied, assuring Dipper they did. Why, he'd known Dipper's father back in high school , though he couldn't quite remember his first name. Nice guy. 8-Ball commented how similar he looked to his old man, by which Dipper couldn't help but grin; most would argue he took after his mother, and not his burly father, Daniel. Daniel, which Dipper reminded 8-Ball, was his name. The man smacked himself atop the head.

"Daniel! That's it. Daniel Pines! Yeah, I remember him. Well, he and I? We were buddies ."

"Yeah?" Dipper asked. 8-Ball hummed.

" Oooh , yeah. Ol' Daniel and me?" He crossed his fingers, putting them on display. "We were like this."

A knot, previously tied tight within Dipper's gut, came loose, all at once neading away at hard muscle. He took an even breath, smiling weakly; polite. Like coming across an old relative he hadn't seen in years. 8-Ball leaned farther into his own booth, looking smug and content.

"Hell, though. It's a shame we lost touch all those years back; can't imagine why . Missed out on meeting his polite little boy."

Which, rightfully so, reset a few alarms in his mind. "Little " wasn't a glowing review by any means, and "polite " only made him sound meek. Perhaps 8-Ball was just teasing; some familiarity must pass down from father to son when dealing with an old friend. Still, the comment had Dipper slouching, then puffing out his chest and hardening his features- jaw clenched in hopes of smoothing out his perpetually boyish face. He was not . Little, that is.

"Thank you." Dipper replied, instead of countering the man; that would've been impolite, his brain mocked. He tried not to glare at himself.

"Nothing to thank for; you're an upstanding kid. Shame, really. Hardly see much of my own family, let alone one of my good friend's." The man pulled a pitiful face. Jaw slack, eyes reflected, skin pale glowing green, he looked closer to a dead fish than a live man. And, maybe so, Dipper mused, when 8-Ball set his chin sorrowfully in his palm. He sighed, looking sad; Dipper hadn't a clue what to do about that, and so sat there awkwardly, clearing his throat once, at a loss for words again. His lips parted, shifted against each other, before decidedly shutting with a clack. His mouth tightened, twitched, only to try once more.

"Well- um. I-. Your company's... nice."

"Is it?" 8-Ball looked up from his slouched posture, to which Dipper confirmed. It put a smile on the man's face. "Well, if you don't just keep getting nicer and nicer? I'll tell you what, I oughta treat you out for that."

The man, for all his moping, melted into something eager; a wide smile of canines more set for a bulldog, and less a slim man as he. Dipper- tripping over his own tongue, set in unease since the start of their conversation- silently recoiled at the proposition and tried to explain that while he'd love to , was already in the presence of other company. It seemed good enough an excuse, being, though 8-Ball appeared quite the simple soul- easy conversation on warmer days- Dipper would be stretched if he didn't admit the uncanny tilt of his eyes put him on edge, and the green hue of his skin gave crawl to his own.

8-Ball was persistent, however; a lonely man on nights such as these, he explained, didn't see much company aside from that which lay in a mirror. He insisted Dipper's friends were no burden to treat as well. A quick drive , he suggested. A convenient store. The mall. Some place was surely still open. Though, when Dipper advised he simply order from the diner they currently occupied, 8-Ball, for all of three seconds, looked unrecognizably agitated. He fluttered his fingers in a sharp wave, persisting, persisting , somewhere else; the food wasn't quite so good at Robin's, he supplied. Dipper became wary. Even so, he maintained the conversation out of politeness for the man who knew his father.

Supposedly.

8-Ball continued, assuring him his parents wouldn't mind it if he took Dipper somewhere else. Again, the teen denied, explaining whether they knew wasn't a matter of consequence, all considering they were a collective eleven hours away by car. This gave the man pause. When asked to elaborate, Dipper simply explained they were a ways off in Piedmont, as they often were while he and his sister made nest in Oregon. Silence from the man, and then a grin.

"You're a bit far from home." 8-Ball commented, nodding his head. His hand went to rest on the corner of his own booth, looking to stand. Seeing this, followed by the drawn line of his body rising- a towering, overcast figure that cast shadow before Dipper's narrow form- gave chase to the child's heart and all passing instincts to escape, whether he felt it was plausible. He said nothing more of the distance, and, strangely enough, felt he'd laid himself freely before predatory intent; a monster set on consumption.

"Where are you staying, then?" Even now, with his cards laid nude beyond the table, knew not to answer, even to someone as indefinitely thin as 8-Ball. There should be no concern of ill-intent before a man that, surely growing up, had been made quite aware of his own physical ineptitude. Dipper, though knowing this, maintained his resolve to keep lips connected, eyes trained on the man looming before him like a spider, patiently dawdling before the tight knit of a cocoon. For a fleeting moment, 8-Ball appeared wary himself; perhaps a trick seen through, not quite concealed as it should be, making his performance all for naught. His mouth made a hitching motion that could've been the making of a smile, or the ghost of a grimace, but more than likely the straining features of someone not yet sure what to do with themselves, or the material they'd been provided. The man's mouth opened- a half baked coercion- only for his phone to ring.

He pulled it out, seeming very cross. Looking to the screen- the boy- he huffed once, playing a grin along his face.

"Don't go anywhere." 8-Ball instructed(Read: Demanded ) before excusing himself to take a quick call. The farther away he got meant yet another muscle unclenching itself within the young boy's body. It wasn't until then he realized he'd been clutching the table for dear life. Sliding his hand away made for a reflective line of sweat across the surface. Both hating his own clammy, damp existence and the raw exposure of his flesh, he got up to wash his hands, feeling strange and breached in every department.