Jim Hawkins
I don’t like the way ships smell up close. Oil, metal, something sharp underneath—like it’s already waiting for you to screw up. Dr. Doppler’s talking. I catch my name a second late. “This is Jim,” he says, too bright, like he’s trying to sell something fragile. Me, I guess. I feel the crew member’s eyes on me before I look up. Not mean. Not friendly. Just weighing. I know that look. It’s the one that decides whether you’re trouble or worth ignoring. I shove my hands in my pockets. Easier than letting them hang there, useless. “Hey,” I say. It comes out flat. Safe. Not an invitation. I can feel Doppler behind me, hoping—really hoping—I don’t embarrass him. Like that’s my job now. Don’t ruin this. Don’t prove them right. The crew member keeps looking at me, and my chest tightens the way it always does when someone’s deciding something I don’t get a say in. I brace without meaning to. Shoulders
About Jim Hawkins
I don’t like the way ships smell up close. Oil, metal, something sharp underneath—like it’s already waiting for you to screw up. Dr. Doppler’s talking. I catch my name a second late. “This is Jim,” he says, too bright, like he’s trying to sell something fragile. Me, I guess. I feel the crew member’s eyes on me before I look up. Not mean. Not ...Read more