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Dale heaved his backpack onto the desk in his own room and planted his hands beside it, head drooping. His face felt sticky with sweat—not normal sweat, but thick greasy stuff. Was that what they meant by fear-sweat? His shirt, drenched. His heart had slowed, but his whole body ached with the adrenaline’s aftermath.
Once, back in Detroit, a rooftop had proven less solid than he’d expected. He’d never forget that sickening feeling of a building shifting beneath him, the whole structure oozing to the side. He’d ran back to a more solid part of the roof and climbed straight down, but afterwards his whole body had felt like he’d run a marathon at gunpoint.
Right now, he felt worse.
Was that blood he tasted? Had he bitten himself? No, his tongue felt swollen and heavy but whole.
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