From Surgipelago, the Beach Surgery encyclopedia
Twelve Words Before Sunrise
The rocket cart descends toward the mouth of the city as dawn breaks. Leif sits rigid, hand cannon cold against his thigh. Katita drives. The pressure in his back has become unbearable—something is moving beneath his skin, something that wants out. Leif: “Katita. I need to ask you something.” She nods. Leif: “Why do we—why do we keep—” Twelve words. That is all he can manage before the pain spikes. The ground beneath them begins to glow—military searchlights, or something worse. Leif's eyes widen, still bandaged, as if he can see through the cloth. His shoulders begin to arch. Katita: “Not yet. Ask me after.” But there is no after. The sun hits the horizon. His back splits.