Page 25 of No Hope of Rescue

He swallows, shadows deepening where his collarbones knit together and dark chest hair swirls.

I’m so wet right now.

He shifts and breathes, his lips moving.

“Brock?” I say.

“Crystal,” he mumbles.

It’s like someone just hit me—a gut punch. Fingers slip from his face. I zip his coat up all the way and pull the knit cap back down, gently positioning his head. His torso flinches when I try to turn away.

I rearrange the oilskin so there’s only darkness underneath. Extricating myself from him is impossible and not safe. We have to stay together for body heat. There’s no way he knows I kissed him. He was already out. Blood loss, hypothermia, and his sister’s disappearance all mean he’s in deep sleep and he won’t remember.

At least that’s what I hope.

Humiliation burns my face, and somewhere behind my eyes, I stop the stinging.

The darkness beneath the oilskin is a welcome relief. I can pretend that stolen kiss never happened.

΅

The first thing I notice is how quiet it is. Savi is snoring softly behind Brock. His breathing is even. I have to pee, and we need to get out of here. Struggling out from under the oilskin, I rise too quickly and am a little dizzy. Cold hits like a wave, and I gasp for a moment.

Snow has filtered into the fuselage, just a few inches from where we lie and up to a foot by the door. Even the evidence of the men’s visit last night is almost gone, buried under thick, powdery snow.

And it’s still coming down. But now the flakes are large. This means the temperature is rising.

It also means we need to get out of here. I step out, trudge through thick snow, fiddle with the Velcro tabs on my snow pants, and squat. The urine leaves a bright yellow stain in the snow, which I quickly cover. We need to drink water. Brock needs to drink water. So does Savi.

Whatever those men left behind is worth enough to come back for. I check the radio on my front pack. Dead. With snow falling fast and thick, in the absence of wind, it’s so quiet, so hushed, that the cry of a lone hawk echoes and hits the ear as a startling cry.

Moving back inside is slow going. I end up digging through my pack for another carb gel pack. Brock stirs, moaning slightly, then he raises his head, blinking. It feels about seven. If my phone hadn’t died, I’d know.

Brock starts to sit up and then rests against the crates. Pulling up the sleeve to his jacket, he peers at his watch. “It’s 7:10,” he says. “We need to get out of here.”

“I know. First, you need to eat this.” I hand him the gel pack and a bent protein bar. I unscrew my canteen, but he won’t drink from it.

“That’s yours,” he says, and he won’t budge. After shaking a from a glove, he scoops up some snow and starts eating it.

I can’t help but remember that kiss on the back of my head—and then my lips on his.

I shiver and cover it with an argument about being hydrated, but he puts me in my place right away. “Not drinking your water. Not happening.” There’s a pause. “But I do need help getting up.”

Squatting next to him, I slip an arm under his and across his back. I lift slowly, giving him time to get his legs under himself. I’m sure we look like a comedy team.

Finally, though, he’s up, and after weaving for a moment, he glances at me, and I slowly let go. He moves toward the door. “I’m taking a piss, and then we’re out of here.”

“Agreed. We need to go.”

He nods. “Fast.”

I pack everything as quickly as I can. When he returns, he bends over stiffly and grabs the oilskin before dragging it across our tracks, then he calls Savi over to walk everywhere.

“I hope they think she’s a wolf,” he says grimly, pointing to Savi’s tracks.

I sift quickly through one of the opened crates, expecting cakes of white powder tightly bound in plastic wrap like on TV cop shows, but this is all sawdust and straw packing material. I fish through the packing material until my hand hits . . . clay?

Bubble wrap has been torn, and I finish it.