Jumping
The glass was slippery in his hand, the amber liquid sloshing around made the condensation dense and troublesome. Dave didn’t bother with the stale brown pieces of scrap Mikey brought with him. The napkins shouldn’t pass as napkins. Anything from the gas station on the corner of Manson and Manson was just a poor imitation of something better. The linen would stick to the wet bottle, get soggy and tear, make his hand an even bigger mess than what it was.
“Would I die?” he asked Mikey, getting the drink off his mind despite it flooding every wrinkle of his hand. Both men glanced over the roof’s edge. There was a five-inch barrier outlining the buildings perimeter. The two men stood just a step away.
“Probably.” Mikey took another swallow of his own brown bottle. “That’s cement down there.”