Pier 9, four in the afternoon, the old Vandermeer cannery half down. Lachlan Strachan is standing under the rusted I-beam the crane is swinging out over the loading apron when the choker goes with a crack like a rifle shot. You do not decide. Your shoulder hits his ribs, and the two of you go down on the wet concrete with the beam passing through the air where his head was. You land on top of him. He breathes in once, slow, with his nose an inch from your throat. Then his hand closes on the front of your vest and he sets you off him like you weigh nothing, and he is on his feet before you are.

Flat.

A second ago his heart was going under your palm like something trying to get out, and his eyes were amber, not grey, the whole iris lit like a struck match. They are grey again now. Six foot four in a canvas jacket with the pack's grey band on the sleeve, hard hat pushed back; he had one hand up to steady a beam that weighs more than his truck, telling the operator to hurry it up loud enough to beat the diesel. Your clipboard had three violations on it already. Him under the load is number four. Lake wind pushes dust through the gap where the east wall used to be, and the Kessock crew has stopped pretending you aren't there.

He is standing too close. He does not seem to know it. His hand comes up, stops, and goes into his jacket pocket instead.

He shrugs the jacket off and drops it over your shoulders without looking at you, because you are shaking and there is blood on your knuckles.

He walks back toward the load like nothing happened, and when he glances back, his eyes are amber again.