“I won’t say anything to anyone.”

“Second. This is a murder scene. Two white males, mid-thirties, drug-dealing scum—dead, and not fresh. It ain’t pretty. Don’t touch anything unless I tell you it’s okay. Got it?”

“Got it.” My palms are already soaked with sweat. I wipe them on my jeans again.

Chuck doesn’t miss that. “It’s okay to be nervous.”

“I’m not nervous.”

“Whatever you say. Walk where I show you to walk.”

I let him take my elbow and lead me around the first truck. Five seconds later, I’m back in front of his patrol car, spewing my breakfast on the ground. “Sorry,” I finally choke out.

“No worries,” Chuck says, not really keeping the impatience out of his voice. “It happens.”

I straighten up and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. “I’m ready this time.”

Maybe I thought it would be more like it is on TV, or one of those video games that are supposedly desensitizing kids these days. The thing is, it almost looks even more fake than those—but somehow, my churning gut knows it’s way too real.