I push back my hood, my hair plastered to my scalp. I pick up my scene case, and it seems incredibly heavy as I make my way to him.

“What’s the matter, Benton?” Marino yells. “You getting bored hanging out with pencil necks? Couldn’t stand missing out on all the excitement? Wanted to drop by and see what real investigators do?”

He’s behind me, loud enough to break the sound barrier and not picking up on cues. Marino’s too busy making cracks about the FIBs, as he calls the FBI when he’s not calling them something worse. Then he falls silent mid-snark because Benton’s grim expression is as rigid as a mask. He’s oblivious to everything except me.

“Shit.” Marino realizes something is seriously off. “Hey? What’s going on?”

“You don’t look good, Kay.” Benton couldn’t be more gentle or somber. “I need you to sit down.”

He starts to touch me but I move away. I have blood on the cuffs of my sleeves. I need to decontaminate. I have to get out of this synthetic clothing before I suffocate. I feel claustrophobic wrapped up from stem to stern like a house under construction, and I’m breathing faster and shallower.

I will myself not to show that I’m on the brink of collapse. I’m keenly aware of the danger signs. One of them is not sweating enough. I’m not anymore.

“How about sitting down and drinking something?” Benton says because he’s thoughtful.

He always has been, from the first time we found ourselves in the same room together, and I couldn’t take my eyes off him. Benton was considerate and kind when he didn’t have to be, when most people weren’t. He didn’t follow the lead of his male compatriots and think of me as tits and ass in a lab coat. He never called me ma’am or Mrs. He’d say my name the way he still does. As if he meant it.

“Do we have Gatorade? Anything like that out here …?” He’s asking because he would do anything for me.

“Not that I’m seeing so far but I’ll keep digging.” Marino is crouching by his Harley-Davidson cooler bag, and I blearily watch his thick fingers find the small metal tongue.

I hear the sound of a zipper as I sit down on top of my scene case. I begin taking off my coveralls, and everything’s a struggle.

“We need to talk about Briggs,” Benton says.

“Is this about him canceling?” It sounds pathetically lame when I ask, like wishful thinking on my part.