Page 57 of Some Like It Hot

He couldn’t hold the shelter down. Not with his wounded shoulder. The corner flapped, and she reached out and caught the edge. Pulled it down.

“No, Larke—your hands will burn!”

“Then give me your glove.” She twisted under him, handed him the edge of the shelter, and while the fire turned to a locomotive outside, she grabbed his glove, shoved it onto her hand.

“And my suit! Shove your arm into my jumpsuit.”

He had already unzipped the top of his suit on his race up the shore, and she took the corner while he pulled his arm free. Smoke billowed into the enclave, and out of the slit she spied flames.

They lay on soggy ground, thanks to the pump, but still on green.

She shoved her hand down the vacant sleeve, through the arm hole, grabbed the corner of the shelter, and yanked it down.

Riley clamped his arm around her waist, pulled her tight to himself, his body hot against hers. “Keep your legs under mine,” he said, and she lined hers up along the strength of his. His knees dug into the soil, his legs like iron as he clamped the shelter to the earth.

“Head down. Dig a little well for our faces, if you can.”

She scrabbled out a spot in the earth with one hand, set her face in it. His wedged in beside hers.

“We’re going to make it, Larke.”

Her body started to shake as the world furied around her. The fire whipped the shelter,and sweat poured down his face. The wide collar of the jumpsuit protected their heads, and she sank into the pocket of his protection, her grip straining to keep the shelter anchored.

“You came for me,” she said, turning her face to his.

“I told you. Where you go, I go.”

Then he kissed her. A strange, awkward kiss, but sweet, and enough for her to taste the salt on his lips. Sweat, perhaps. Or maybe he’d been crying.

Yes, a hero, exactly the kind she needed.

“Now, just keep breathing.”

She nodded and put her face back into the well, listening to the fire crest over her, through her, and pour into her heart.

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me…

Nine

Somehow Riley had landed without burning to death or drowning, somehow he’d found Larke in the clutter of the smoke and flames, and somehow he had gotten the fire shelter out, thrown over them, and bedded down in the grass.

Now he simply had to keep them alive.

And that was the problem.

First rule of fire shelters—they need to be deployed in the black. Or at least a scraped-out section of inflammable earth.

Instead he’d parked them, out of desperation and immediacy, on a soggy patch of flammable, lethal grass.

Larke’s entire body trembled beneath his, protected, yes, by his jumpsuit along with the flimsy material of the fire shelter. But even if the flames didn’t dry the earth, scorch it and lick their way inside the tent, they could just as easily bake, or suffocate from the soaring heat as the blaze cooked around them. It wasn’t uncommon to have to shelter for an hour, maybe longer.

If they lifted the shelter too soon, the air around them would still be toxic, the oxygen depleted, and they’d sear their lungs.

Riley tucked his face beside hers in the tiny well she’d scraped out for them, felt her tears on his cheekbone, and wanted to kiss them away. “It’ll be okay,” he whispered, reaching deep for hope.

“It’s so hot, Riley. It’s so…”

“I know.”