“Glad you said that. Cuz they’re yours.” I blanch. “What?” “They’re yours.” “My what?” “Your eyes!” “My eyes…” “Did yon Friendly Giant drop you on your head in the rescue? Mickey had your eyes in a cryobox at his joint in Yorkton—creepy place, by the by—when we raided it for supplies to bring back to Tinos to help the Rising. I figured you weren’t usin’ ’em, so…” He shrugs awkwardly. “So I asked if he’d put ’em in. You know. Bring us closer together. Something to remember you by. That’s not so weird, right?” “I told him it was odd,”
