“Oh, shit,” he said.
“Goddamn it,” I said, “keep the fucking editorial to yourself. Can you reach it or not?”
I heard him grunt as he pulled himself up in the tube, then felt his hand groping up my calf. Soon, his chest was crushing my calves into the tube’s floor and his hand was pawing around my ass.
“I can reach it,” he said. I could tell from his tone that he wasn’t too happy about my snapping at him, but I was too wrapped up to consider an apology, despite what must be happening to my Whuffie as Dan did his slow burn.
He fumbled the gun—a narrow cylinder as long as my palm—out of my pocket. “Now what?” he said.
“Can you pass it up?” I asked.
Dan crawled higher, overtop of me, but stuck fast when his ribcage met my glutes. “I can’t get any further,” he said.
“Fine,” I said. “You’ll have to fire it, then.” I held my breath. Would he do it? It was one thing to be my accomplice, another to be the author of the destruction.
“Aw, Jules,” he said.
“A simple yes or no, Dan. That’s all I want to hear from you.” I was boiling with anger—at myself, at Dan, at Debra, at the whole goddamn thing.