Al knew his paranoia would lead to madness, unless he balanced it with common sense. He avoided jumping to conclusions. Peeking from behind the wall, he stole glances at Bram’s office. Never, despite months of working with Bram, had Al seen someone physically visit the place.

Beside the door stood a woman. Her hand hovered, positioned to knock, but remained paralyzed, unwilling to cross the distance. Her hair, black and bobbed, hid her other hand from sight, as she toyed with something behind the strands. Al suspected she was just a client. Anyone that mattered would have dressed formally, rather than arrive wearing a blue blouse tucked in jeans. She wavered. Whatever the reason, she refused to take the initiative and knock.

Stepping forward, Al cleared his throat.

She turned sharply.

“Looking for Br—” Al shook his head, then continued, “Mr. Hildreth?”

Opening her mouth, she faltered before settling on a nod.

“If he’s here, then the office should be unlocked. Go ahead,” said Al, gesturing towards the door. “Don’t worry about interrupting, his schedule is usually open.”

She frowned. Reaching out, she grabbed the door handle—

Glass shattered from behind the door, the noise followed by heavy footsteps and muffled grumbling. Glancing once, they both rushed into the room, leaving the door ajar.

Al paused. Bram was leaning against his desk, one hand resting against his head, while staring below. His shoulders slumped. Water spread across the floor, fleeing from broken glass. Based on the fragments, the container had been round and closed off, a special bottle of sorts. Al felt his tension loosen. Concern over Bram’s wellbeing was foolish; last night had resolved itself without consequence. Still, Al allowed himself a moment of relief.

“Great timing, Al,” said Bram, before reaching down and singling out a fragment. “Grab the broom and dustpan, would you? Paper towels too, if you can find them. Er, also the extinguisher—I don’t think we’ll need to worry about fire but—”

“You have a guest.”

Bram looked. Beside the wall of clocks, their guest crossed her arms and waved weakly.

“Hello! Welcome!” Bram straightened himself, wobbling once before grabbing his desk. “Hildreth Investigators specializes in everything paranormal, we—uh, you were looking for this place, right?”

“I was,” the woman responded.

“Great! Have a seat—Al, find the chairs—I’ll be with you momentarily, just dealing with a little mishap. Oh, and watch your step,” Bram gestured towards the water and glass.

“I’m fine standing,” she said. “Could we…talk?”

“Alright then,” Bram replied, nodding. “Hey, Al, if you wouldn’t mind—”

“No worries, I’ll clean the floor. Go ahead. Talk.”

Finding the broom and dustpan, Al swept, slightly puzzled over the liquid spreading across the floor. It looked like water and lacked any strong scent but had also been kept within an unusual container. Knowing Bram, the substance had hibernated for years, another oddity among the office shelves. Whatever. Questions for later; right now, Al focused on cleaning the floor and sneaking glances at Bram’s conversation.

“Sorry about, well, everything,” Bram said, arms wide, waving over the room. “I wasn’t expecting any visitors today, would have prepared if I knew.” He shook his head. “Either way, hope I can help with whatever you tracked us down for. Oh, and I’m Bram Hildreth,” he said, extending a hand.

Their guest said nothing. Moments passed while Bram’s hand hung unmet, silence somehow heightened as the nearby clocks ticked away. Rejection sinking in, Bram began lowering his arm, only for the guest to finally reach out. She gave a single shake.

“Cynthia McFritz,” she said.

“McFritz?” He frowned, leaning back. “McFritz, McFritz…have we met before?”

Cynthia’s expression brightened.

Bram snapped his fingers. “Oh! That McFritz! Small world, I was thinking about getting into contact. During high school, you were the one that spotted Vell’s suicide ghost, weren’t you?”

“Did you see him again?” Al shouted, nearly dropping the broom.

Slowly, Bram turned, his stare joining Cynthia’s as they threw him questioning looks. Bram’s expression was frozen, masked over with an almost-smile. Cynthia frowned.

“Sorry,” Al mumbled. “Just curious.”

Smooth.

“…and that’s Al,” said Bram. “He gets excited sometimes. Anyway, we’re getting off topic and our own questions can wait. Vell’s ghosts aren’t important right now. So! Go on, what did you want to talk about?”

Cynthia crossed her arms again. “Ghosts.”

She explained her situation. Apparently, Bram was correct: standing within the office was the person referenced during their last meeting, who had called the police and reported a suicide that never happened. Humpty Dumpty was not her concern. She, strangely enough, never encountered the specter in the years following her initial sighting. Instead, another ghost plagued her, one significantly more vexing.

“Recently,” she said, “my grandmother…”

Death often sparked interest in the unknowable. Past clients, stricken with grief, occasionally decided that paranormal investigator was synonymous with psychic or medium, calling Bram and begging for a séance to communicate with their deceased. No such luck. Those calls were always frustrating, devolving into Bram offering emotional support until the caller exhausted themselves. Grief, however, was currently a non-issue. Cynthia’s concerns were somewhat different.

Months ago, her grandmother died, passing away while asleep. Evidence suggested natural causes. Well, the tragedy gradually faded, and Cynthia moved forward, powerless against death. Ghosts were absent then. Ghosts were present now. Yesterday, Cynthia visited Vell’s beaches and ports, staring outwards towards the horizon, scanning the waves until spotting someone floating above the ocean. Familiarity washed over her. Pictures were taken, capturing nothing but water. Despite uncertainty, she reached her conclusion: that someone, that spirit was her grandmother. Eventually, the figure vanished.

Cynthia wanted to investigate further but felt ill-equipped, given her cluelessness regarding the supernatural. Until now, her only experience with spirits was spotting Humpty Dumpty. She needed help from an expert.

Bram, relatively speaking, was an expert. He nodded along.

“Will you help?” she asked.

“Sure,” Bram replied. “I’ll search Vell’s ports for your ghost. I’m mostly free for the upcoming weeks, have any specific day or time in mind?”

“Later today. Would tonight work?”

Bram glanced at the clocks. “Alright. Sounds good, I’ll meet you there in several hours. Anything else worth mentioning?”

Finer details were clarified. Numbers were exchanged. Payment was mentioned, with Bram shrugging out an estimated price. Cynthia agreed without negotiating. Everything important now resolved, their client excused herself, soft steps fading as she exited the office, closing the door without a noise.

Al finished sweeping the glass. Meanwhile, Bram crossed his arms, still observing the patchwork of clocks.

“So,” Al began. “What are the odds we’re being lured into a trap?”

Jumping slightly, Bram turned, eyebrows scrunched together. “Wait, are you talking about McFritz?”

“She seemed nervous, didn’t she? Her timing is suspect too. Coincidences happen, but being visited by someone connected to Vell’s egghead, Humpty Dumpty, after he conveniently tumbles back into view is, well, weird. It might be nothing. Or she could be gathering intel to pass along, just like Humpty. We shouldn’t take everyone at face value, right?”

Bram shook his head. “Slow down, you’ve lost me. You think she’s suspicious, I understand that part, but why? ‘Gathering intel…just like Humpty,’ what are you trying to say, Al? That she’s working with Vell’s suicide ghost?” Bram hesitated. “Did something happen last night?”

“Nothing much. I walked around Vell, spoke with Humpty, then wandered home.” Al yawned. “What about you? Anything happen, other than getting burnt by the Mystery Babylon? Finally win big?”

Tick…tick…tick…

Slowly, Bram walked past him, walked past the desk, then patted his chair and plopped down, leaning back before motioning towards him. “Okay. You have my attention. What happened?”

Technically, little happened. Yesterday’s disasters, having disappeared, lacked physical evidence proving their occurrence. Regardless, Al recounted the night, citing his recorded memories. No details were spared. From the conversation outside Mother Goose’s territory, to Al’s second restart upon the skyscraper, he explained everything, concluding with ditching Humpty and heading home. Deaths, of course, were included. Al had died. Bram had died. Given the stakes, Al couldn’t afford to twist the specifics. He assumed Humpty still reported the encounter, passing information to Mother Goose. She knew of him and his interest in Mages. Al expected an eventual confrontation.

Silently, Bram listened. One hand rested on his desk, fiddling with that glass fragment he had kept.

“…and that’s everything,” Al concluded.

Bram looked away. Tilting his head from side to side, he stopped, shrugged, then lifted the fragment, closing an eye to inspect the shard. “You know, several years back I considered becoming an exorcist.”

Huh?

“What?” Bram said, smirking. “Surprised? Back then, it seemed perfect. What better job would someone want, assuming that someone obsessed over the supernatural? Exorcist organizations have deep roots, they’re probably hiding all sorts of secrets. Plus, the career prospects looked great! Did you know demand for exorcisms is actually on the rise—”

“Bram?”

“Yes?”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Al said, raising his hands. “Mother Goose? Humpty Dumpty? Time literally jumped backwards for me! You were listening, right?”

Bram laughed, shrugging again. “Sorry! Sorry! Really, I know this is serious, but what can I say? Between time travel, our apparent deaths, and upcoming cases, I’m feeling slightly overwhelmed, okay? Give me, I don’t know, a couple days? I’ll mull over the details later, see what I can figure from it. Until then, let’s calm down and confirm the basics.” He leaned forward. “Well? What do you think happened?”

Al sighed. “I have some ideas. I reviewed my memories this morning, just enough to confirm that those events were real. Something caught my attention. It bothered me last night, but now I’m certain: that weird…gravity…feeling must have saved me, somehow.” He shook his head. “Possibly literally, like a save point. Nothing else makes sense.”

“And death isn’t the trigger,” Bram mused.

“Right. The first reset happened before I died, and the second occurred hours after I fell.”

“And that Mage, Mother Goose, might track you down, because whether she remembers those events or not, you still spoke with her familiar.” Bram tapped his finger. “And given the timing, you’re suspicious of McFritz?”

“Honestly? Not really,” Al admitted. “I’m just being careful. Yesterday’s mistakes were all mine, I…” an image flashed, bleeding upon the earth. “I want to avoid getting either of us killed. That’s all.”

Bram nodded.

Settling into silence, they digested everything discussed. During past misadventures, risk was also ever-present, hanging overhead like gathering lightning. From time to time, a critical equilibrium would wobble, disaster manifesting as a split-second bridge between two realities, striking with thunderous force. Despite Bram’s complaints, Fortuna smiled upon them. The lightning, thus far, amused itself with nearby targets, only affecting them via collateral. Old interests were fading. New interests were found. Somehow, Al found himself followed, hunted, the fascination of bored lightning. He might survive. His friend, however, might fall.

Glancing, He noticed Bram continued fidgeting with the broken shard.

Al frowned. “Disappointed?”

“Hmm?”

“From earlier,” he clarified. “When that glass thing fell. What broke, anyway?”

“Oh. That.” Bram stood, extending his hand into sunlight, presenting the shard. “Notice the shape?”

Resting there, the glass held some semblance of form. One side remained intact, invaded from the other through cracks and fractures, suggesting that, upon falling, the piece had snapped off. Two lines joined, overlapping at their centers. Al gave a guess.

“Close enough,” Bram said, before stashing the shard inside his desk. “Rambling about exorcists made it obvious, huh?”

“Very. So, that glass and water I cleaned up—”

“Sealed holy water. Easily replaced, but the bottle was a gift.” Bram hesitated, then shrugged. “It wasn’t important or anything, I only remembered it because an interesting rumor started this morning. Nothing’s confirmed, but people claim an infamous exorcist arrived at Vell’s airport. Father…Mark? Markos? Something like that. Anyway, I wanted to spend today tracking him, but then McFritz showed up. Well! There’s always tomorrow.”

Once again, conversation died down. Noticing the time, Bram suggested leaving for Vell’s coast, as arriving early would allow them to investigate without oversight. Al agreed, and they gathered everything necessary before leaving the office.

Within the elevator, they descended. Bram crossed his arms, tapping his foot while staring into space.

“Hey, Al?” Bram turned, face frozen over. “Your story from last night. One detail stood out, something crucial I need clarified. You’ll answer honestly, won’t you?”

“Yes? Why?” Shifting, Al felt himself tense. “Go ahead. Ask.”

“Alright,” Bram said, steeling himself, expression flickering between neutrality and something indistinct. “That familiar. That ghost. I might have misheard, but…” He leaned forward. “You literally went around calling him Humpty?”

In silence, several moments passed.

Al glared. “You can’t be serious.”

Expression scrunched, Bram braced himself, hunching over, leaning back, grinning with trapped absurdity. All restraint snapped. Mask off, Bram erupted with laughter.

“Oh, grow up! You know where the name comes from! Mother Goose—I mean, his maker… She… You… I didn’t choose their names! Bram—!”

Unfortunately, Bram only laughed harder.

***

Oceans were strongholds of mystery. They refused complete exploration, guarding their depths with various barriers, natural or otherwise. Monsters dwelled there, dreaming within the abyss. Treasure slept. Entire histories waited, forgotten, fallen from across time, protected beneath the waves. Disaster was common. Shipwrecks, among other misfortunes, stirred imagination, prompting stories of gold and ghosts. Fog obscured. Night obscured. Doubt allowed the question: what was watching from beyond the shore?

Al admitted his interest. Initially dismissive, he had realized this investigation could provide unexpected answers. Recent events were unresolvable without further information. Their client, coincidentally or not, had encountered Hum—Mother Goose’s familiar, and seemingly possessed abnormal perception. Al had gradually grown excited. Nearing Vell’s coastline, he had reassured himself, imagining the potential clues waiting within the ocean!

Then, Bram had swerved left. Their location was not the ocean.

Sunlight scorched, sharp shadows contrasting against bright cement. Crowds waxed and waned. Ever-present chatter was drowned, suppressed by speakers blaring music throughout the area. Screams rang out, metal scraping against metal, nearby rollercoasters trembling with force. Al stood, sweating, half-eaten popcorn bag in hand. He looked aside. Bram was testing his luck.

Hand raised, Bram aimed, eyes locked with the arrayed cups behind the stall. Most were clear. Several were marked, their colors promising victory. Prizes hung above. Confidence having peaked, Bram released the plastic ball within his grasp.

It bounced, once, twice, before stopping.

“Eleventh flop,” Al counted. “Done trying?”

Grumbling, Bram fished within his pockets, already betting on attempt twelve.

Thus, Al found himself trapped here, Vell’s coastline in sight, imprisoned until McFritz called or Bram’s wallet bled dry. Dusk remained hours away. Whatever. Stretching, Al wiped his brow, then walked around. The amusement park brimmed with energy, housing locals and tourists alike. He frowned. This sudden detour was proving useless. His thoughts, unsurprisingly, pivoted backwards towards recent events.

Something fluttered overhead.

Flinching, stumbling, nearly falling, Al spun and searched, his heartbeat skipping in expectation. Already? How could they—

Perched atop the stall, a flock inspected him. Heads tilted, their united gaze locked upon the object that summoned them. Precise calculations guided their movements. One wobbled closer, wings raised, feathers rustling with anticipation. The birds beckoned him forth.

Oh. Fine, I get it. Al reached within his bag, then tossed up a kernel.

Screeching, the seagulls flung themselves, twisting through the air, knocking each other aside and racing towards the prize. They missed; falling, the speck of food dragged them lower, finally landing before being plucked by the winner. Contest over, the flock settled and redirected themselves at Al, awaiting round two.

Shrugging, welcoming the distraction, Al threw several more pieces, passing the time. The flock increased in number. Growing bolder, the seagulls inched closer and closer. One landed beside his shoes, looking upwards and whining, devoid of patience or fear. Know what? You can have it. Reaching out, Al flipped the bag, dumping the remaining popcorn onto the bird before him.

All bets were off. Squawking with surprise, the immediate seagull shook itself clean, pecking wildly while the flock swarmed and attacked the sudden jackpot. Greed compelled, doubling their ferocity. Fights broke out. Al stepped back, aware the birds were overtaking him, and threw his bag into a nearby bin. Final glance given, he walked away and went searching for Bram.

Bram met him halfway.

“McFritz called,” said Bram, waving his phone. “She arrived early. Can’t keep a client waiting, guess we’ll cut this break short.” He shoved his phone away, raising his other hand. “Really though, what terrible timing! I was one shot away from winning!”

No. No he wasn’t. Contemplating whether to vent about the obvious, Al settled upon simply nodding. Bram guided them towards the exit. Walking there, Al noted the stalls they passed, mostly scams similar to what Bram had obsessed over. Outliers were occasionally spotted, like fortune tellers or food venders. He considered something.

“So,” said Al. “Was there a point in coming here?”

“Extending my loss streak, apparently. Twenty flops! Can you believe it! I…”

Al quieting while Bram rambled, aware that the question was being avoided. Between the ache in his legs and the daytime heat, Al lacked the energy to pry. Bram’s methods and tactics weren’t always obvious; his logic, however, was usually sound. Perhaps this visit was honest distraction.

Still, Al wondered.

***

Oceans were strongholds of mystery. By comparison, the ports and beaches lining them lacked gusto. Coastline depths were the oceans’ fringes, meaning, in practice, they were farthest from anything particularly interesting. The mystery Al sought was farther, too far for ordinary travel. Upon arriving, that fact became apparent, given their location was Vell’s most notable beach. Human presence was ubiquitous. From the vacationers on shore, to the cargo ships within sight, civilization made its mark. Horns often rang out from the port, another feature among the bustle surrounding them. Walking there, still cushioned by concrete, the pair soon found McFritz.

She granted them a weak wave. The gesture prevented them from overlooking her: between her sunglasses and floppy hat, she wasn’t easily identified.

Typical. Can’t risk being recognized, not while—shaking himself, Al repressed his snark. Their current client deserved the benefit of doubt. Sure, the previous one had avoided them, embarrassment preventing any meetings, but lumping together the two was unfair. Al hardly knew her, and clear skies meant sunlight would scorch until nightfall. Hiding herself wasn’t the intent, probably. Right?

Bram waved in return. “Enjoying the weather?”

Exchanging greetings and small talk, conversation moved onto the investigation, with Bram reiterating what was already confirmed. McFritz responded, speaking plainly. A path was planned. Beginning where the initial sighting occurred, they would circle between the beach and ports, moving together. Having ironed the specifics, Bram walked alongside McFritz, following her lead.

Trailing behind, Al recognized a problem.

Investigations followed common patterns. Variance factored, but, through Bram’s experience and Al’s inherited knowledge, categories had emerged, guiding them depending on the scenario. Specifically, four types existed, determined using two questions.

First, were the supernatural events consistent? Could certain factors, often place or time, be predicted?

Second, were the forces autonomous or non-autonomous? Did they possess minds? Was communication possible?

Their recent case at that house provided an example. Bram, after collecting information, interpreted the details, concluding the forces were consistent but not necessarily autonomous. Despite slight mistakes, Bram correctly predicted that their goal would involve neutralizing a physical object. In breaking that object, Al had resolved the case.

Ghosts were consistent and autonomous. Anchors bound them, limiting their territory. McFritz spotted her specter offshore, suggesting an underwater Anchor, an Anchor hidden though sheer scope, functionally unreachable. If Al understood as much, then Bram likely reached similar conclusions. An onshore search would resolve nothing. What was Bram thinking?

When the opportunity arose, Al confided his thoughts.

“Confused?” Bram laughed. “You’re over thinking things. We…actually, no, won’t say it. Investigate the problem yourself,” he said, shrugging. “I’ll offer a hint: what were we actually hired for? You were listening, weren’t you?”

Of course I wasn’t. Admittedly, Al’s understanding of their current case was shoddy, his interest monopolized on unraveling yesterday’s mysteries. Recalling pieces of McFritz’s conversation within the office, he wondered what exactly she wanted. His recorded memories likely held the answer. Moving along, Al cast that option aside, aware of an easier solution…

Saltwater tinged the breeze. Seaside festivities surrounded their search. Littering the beach were countless groupings, large and small, enjoying the seaside sunlight, their towels and umbrellas scattering blotches of color, blooming like flowers upon the shore. Travelling between them, the trio advanced, blending in among the bystanders. Seagulls perched within patches of relative emptiness. Landmarks were passed, including a lighthouse and accompanying chapel, the latter bustling with energy. Al focused on searching for clues. Bram, meanwhile, seemed content between snapping photos and chatting with McFritz. Slowly, sunlight began its retreat.

Crowds thinned. Having peaked, daytime events dwindled, the area falling into a lull that would persist until nighttime revived its appeal, albeit at smaller scale.

All three agreed: a break was overdue.

Stretching, Al surveyed their stopping point. Others were absent, neglecting the location on account of sand pits and jagged rocks that extended into the ocean. Wooden fencing, short and weathered, also marked the boundary, overlooking slopes that terminated into the water. Bram stepped aside, reviewing information on his phone. McFritz was looking away. Leaning against the fence, she observed the rolling waves.

Better now than never.

“McFritz?” Al called out.

Flinching, thoughts disrupted, she turned. Arms crossed. “Yes?” McFritz replied, expression veiled via her sunglasses.

“Bram probably explained this,” Al began, “but our actual ability to affect the paranormal is limited.” He waited. Uninterrupted, Al continued, “I’m wondering what you expect from us? Why chase this ghost at all?”

She frowned. “I explained already. I’m certain that ghost was my grandmother.” Reaching up, one hand began toying with her blue earing. “Why wouldn’t I chase it? Wouldn’t you do the same? You care about your grandparents, don’t you?”

Phrasing it that way, yeah, I would. Mouth open, Al considered mentioning his grandfather, then stopped. His own troubles weren’t relevant; not now, during the investigation. Instead, he imagined being granted her situation, imagined the opportunity. Another chance to learn from his grandfather? All my problems would be solved at once, wouldn’t they? If only.

“Er…” McFritz said, leaning back. “Sorry, did I say something odd?”

Al shook himself. “Not really. I’m just thinking things over,” he said, looking aside. “Bram should finish whatever he’s doing soon, then we’ll keep searching.”

“How long have you known Bram?” McFritz asked. “I thought you were brothers, but I can’t really tell. Also…” she hesitated, slightly flustered. “What was your name again? I think Bram mentioned it but—”

“Al, short for Alastor Maxwell. I’ve been working with Bram for two years, maybe slightly longer. Why even ask?” Obviously just small talk, but maybe… “Have you known Bram long? He mentioned recognizing your name.”

McFritz froze.

“Sorry, did I say something wrong?” Figures. Doesn’t like talking about Humpty Dumpty. Never an easy answer!

She relaxed, then sighed. “He remembers me because of that other ghost, right?”

Al nodded. “What happened anyway?”

“You aren’t the first to ask. I’m not sure what you’re expecting, but the truth is that I don’t really know. I saw someone drop. I called the police. Somehow, the news spread, and everyone assumed I was crazy. That’s it. Until this other ghost appeared, I though everything was finally over.” She bit her lip. “I’m surprised you two are even taking me seriously, but I guess that’s your job, isn’t it?”

Again, Al nodded. “Right. That makes sense. Sorry for mentioning it, McFritz.”

“Cynthia,” she said, frowning slightly. “Call me Cynthia. Keeping everything so formal is annoying. Bram already stopped with that, so follow his lead,” she huffed.

Agreeing, he moved aside, breaking off the conversation. Bram finished using his phone, returning and resuming discussion with Cynthia. Al leaned over the fence. Looking outward he noticed falling sunlight, an orange tinge already formed. Slumping, muscles loose, Al reflected upon the day. It mimicked most, marked primarily by boredom. Sunset would signal its end.

Gradually, orange deepened, first joined then conquered through pink and red, the colors staining sky and ocean alike. While Bram and Cynthia worked, searching the waves, Al did likewise, though perhaps with different motives. Yesterday hadn’t been forgotten. This case mattered only as steppingstone, as another source for clues linked with his goals. Cynthia herself was underwhelming. Her abnormal perception originated from, what Al guessed, was random chance. Coincidence was poison, he reminded himself. Cynthia’s connection with Mother Goose was functionally a nonstarter, another dead-end. Yawning, Al scanned ahead, eyes trailing from horizon to nearby shore.

He leaned forward. Wooden beams groaned beneath him, but he continued, squinting and staring where the slope and waves met. Seagulls were perched below, restless, poking at shapes and shadows. An object rested there. Al leaned further, aware something was—

Crack.

Gravity slammed him onto the slope. Air knocked aside, pinpricks of shivers erupting across his skin, Al stumbled, loose sand stumbling with him, ground slipping against efforts. Rocks struck, bruising already felt, and a jagged chunk tore into his side, shallow, but enough to bleed. He fell. Vision blurred, sights blending until water was struck, ending his descent while saltwater stung his face, foul taste dripping into his mouth. Al coughed, shaking, soaked, gathering his balance and finally stabilizing. Seagulls shrieked, flying off. An indistinct scent hovered around him. Gripping his side, he looked towards what rested, half-submerged, within the waves.

Bram and Cynthia were shouting. Ignoring them, Al stared ahead.

Decay was visible. Floating slightly within the shallow, scarlet water, the body revealed itself: swollen, shriveled, a mess of gore. Below the neck were multiple cuts, long, precise, parallel with one another. Lines carved into the flesh. Now close, Al understood what confused him at distance.

Everything below the neck was damaged, mutilated, broken. Everything above the neck, however, was gone.