[ Kavinsky’s grin is still predatory when Prokopenko slouches into the tent. He watches him, and watches the kid, and it is as if he summoned him on thought alone. But of course, Prokopenko is a gift, a trading piece, as much as the cigarettes are. He doesn’t do anything about it yet.
He reaches his hand into the mess of magnetic rocks and they slither and vibrate down his fingers and hand and forearm like thick ink. When he tosses them into the air this time they become a small black sun, pulsing with the heartbeat of the bass playing on the bluetooth speaker. ]
You can touch, kid. They don’t bite. Not the rocks at least.
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He reaches his hand into the mess of magnetic rocks and they slither and vibrate down his fingers and hand and forearm like thick ink. When he tosses them into the air this time they become a small black sun, pulsing with the heartbeat of the bass playing on the bluetooth speaker. ]
You can touch, kid. They don’t bite. Not the rocks at least.