I tug him closer. But this time, he doesn’t come. Firm and flat, he tells me, “Stop.” I stiffen. The strangeness sings, triumphant. See? You can’t trust him. He’s made you show your hand, made you want and need, made a fool of you, and you fell for it. It is entirely possible that I’m going to be sick. “I’m not doing this,” Griff says. “You’re—” Pathetic, spectacularly useless, worth less than a kilo of snow. But what he says is, “You’re shaking. Keynes, you’re shaking.” His tone isn’t gentle, but his hands are. They curl around my upper arms, stroking up and down, as if to soothe me.
