ESPRIT DE CORPS [Impossible: Success] — His palms are sweating just beneath the leather of his gloves, invisible to anyone and everyone who isn’t you. His partner, the one who shares this infinitesimal slice of the pale with him that, somehow, feels roomier with you in it. His ribs expand and contract beneath your forearms, making way for his lungs that glow and spark with radiation, cigarette ash and diesel. A shiver zips up his spine, pulls his abdomen tighter and his shoulder blades back against your sternum. He is scared of this power — of this dogged machine so shiny and eager to bark. It excites him, but he fears its bite. The gun is there, too.