I inhale through my nose, nearly gagging on the smell of decay and rot Nate’s secreting. I’m not sure how I didn’t notice the odor before. The hair on his head, along with the new hair on his face, is caked in dried blood and grime. His skin is covered in the same, giving it a muddy color peppered with fresh scrapes and scabs that have crusted over. “Casey,” he says, impatient for my response. I scrunch up my nose and cover it with my hand. “It’s just . . . you smell really bad.” He glances down at his clothes, covered in ten days of filth. Tugging on the collar of his T-shirt, he sniffs it
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This is just unreal. In what world would someone be trying to get frisky when they’re in this shape? He’d have to be itching from the crust.
