Page 69 of Property of Bob

Skull stopped. “You’ve got about fifteen feet before your legs tell you to fuck off.”

“I said I got it.”

He shook his head. “Stubborn asshole.”

“Yeah, but this stubborn asshole is going to walk.”

Nobody moved to help him. That surprised me.

Then I realized why. They were letting him do it. Watching and ready, but letting him.

Ashland started toward me. His steps were slow—not shaky exactly, just deliberate. Every step looked like it took thought.

I didn’t move. Part of me wanted to rush over and grab his arm. The other part knew he’d probably bite my head off if I did.

So I stood there—sunglasses still on top of my head, hair probably sticking out everywhere, grease smudged across one hand from leaning over the engine, a breakfast burrito wrapper still shoved into my back pocket—and watched Ashland Moore walk toward me.

The man I’d come to Skull Island looking for. The man who’d nearly died. The man who was supposed to still be in the hospital.

He stopped a few feet away. His breathing was heavier than it should’ve been.

His eyes went over me and then the RV. His mouth twitched. “Looks like you got everybody working.”

I finally found my voice. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Nice to see you too.”

“You’re supposed to be in the hospital.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Discharged.”

I looked at Skull.

He nodded. “Technically.”

My eyes narrowed. “What does technically mean?”

Ashland sighed. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Start,” he breathed out.

“I am not starting anything.”

Prime coughed.

I pointed at him without looking. “Not one word.” I continued to look at Ashland. “You can barely walk.”

“I walked over here.”

“Fifteen feet.”

“Still walked.”