Chapter 12 · Second Signatory

"Ninety minutes just became forty, Mr. Black." The radio crackled on the concrete between us, the voice on the other end flat as a dial tone. "Board moved the vote up. They want your answer before puck drop."

Torin didn't reach for it. His hand was still wrapped around the wrench, knuckles white, a thin red line where the steel had bitten him on the last swing. A bead of blood sat in the crease of his palm and he didn't seem to notice.

"Say something." My voice came out rough, chalk-dry from the cold air chewing at my throat. "Or are we just going to let him talk to the wall?"

"I'm thinking."

"Think faster. Forty minutes, Torin."

He didn't look at me. He looked at the valve — at the red compliance seal that hadn't cracked no matter how hard we'd both leaned into it, palms raw, shoulders screaming from the last pull. Then his eyes went past it, up the wall, to a panel bolted higher than either of us had bothered to check.