Michael, fingers still solidly entwined with Wolfgang’s, is pulled right to the edge with them. He’s not worried about them or himself; there’s only room for beauty and fascination and thrill. He stretches to lean over and get a view as good as the one Wolfgang has of the street below them. When they say what they say, Michael’s eyes dart to them, wondering if they knew what he was thinking about, but—no. Anyone would think about that up here. Probably. Right? He keeps telling himself he should stop assuming these things.
“I wonder what you could drop,” he says. “If there’s anything you could drop that would be safe. And not, like, a feather, either. I mean something that would fall for real. Could you drop one penny?”