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“We need wood for a fire.” Pausing, Mishka assesses me as I stand unsteadily on my feet, the suit jacket wrapped as snugly as I can make it around my body. Reaching behind himself, he pulls a gun from his waistband and offers it to me. “In case you need it. Just don’t shoot me when I’m coming back.”
“What about you?” I ask uncertainly, hesitating to take it. If he’s going back into the woods, it seems he’ll need it more than me.
“I’ve got another,” he assures me.
Nodding, I accept it reluctantly. I’ve never held a gun before, and it’s heavy in my palm.
Mishka’s eyes watch me closely for a moment. Then he releases a heavy sigh as he steps close. “Until you’re aiming at something specific, keep it pointed toward the ground,” he instructs, replacing the gun in my hand so I’m holding it properly. He lines my finger up with the cool metal above the trigger. “Only put your finger on the trigger once you’re ready to pull it.”
Then he puts my second hand beneath my fist, cupping it so I’m supporting the gun’s weight with both arms. With a single fluid motion, he draws my arms up to shoulder height, his hands strong and steady around my own. My heart flip-flops at his suddenly overwhelming proximity, his chest against my back, his arms enveloping me.
“When you aim, look down the barrel. See this red dot? Line it up with these indicators. That’s how you know what you’re shooting.” Turning the gun, he indicates a small black knob and flicks it, revealing a line of red. “Safety’s off now, which means this gun will definitely go off if you pull the trigger. Got it?” he finishes, releasing me.
I nod, lowering it slowly as heat radiates through my body.
“I’ll be back as soon as I can. Just remember not to shoot me.”
“Right,” I agree, hobbling into the shallow cave to sit against the back wall. I set the gun down beside me, within reach but not where I might accidentally bump it.
Then I watch as he vanishes into the night.
When he’s gone, I turn my attention to my feet, pulling off my shoes and inspecting the blisters I’ve collected on our walk. Two have burst already, and several more look like angry welts. I’ll live, though it feels immensely better to free my swollen, aching feet and put them on the cool ground for a moment.
The temperature drops as I wait for Mishka to return, and I wrap my arms around my body, pulling my knees up to my chest and crossing my ankles to avoid being indecent in my dress. Not that it’s going to matter much if we’re going to die out here, anyway—which I think we have a fairly good chance of at this point. At least Mishka seems to know what he’s doing.
Trying to stay out of my head, I rest it back against the cave wall and watch the entrance, willing my brooding rescuer to return quickly. Because despite his gruff frustration over being stuck with me, I know he saved my life. He pulled me from that car when I was unconscious, patched me up, and he’s the only thing keeping me going when I feel a paralyzing sense of fear and loss over what happened tonight.
Six people in our car, and four are most certainly dead.
Mishka’s dark silhouette appears not twenty minutes later, an armful of branches cradled against his chest. “Best I can do without a proper axe,” he states, dropping the pile at my feet. Without another word, he sets to work building a fire, stacking the wood just the way he wants it, surrounding the pile with a makeshift perimeter of rocks he finds nearby.
“You mind?” he asks, gesturing to his coat pockets that hang from my body.
Before I can take his coat off, he steps close to slip a hand into the pocket he wants. He withdraws a tiny first-aid kit I hadn’t even known was there and opens it.
“No matches or lighter,” he grumbles, zipping the kit back up. “That would have been too easy.”
“So, no fire?” I murmur, fighting to keep the tears from my voice.
He snorts. “I can still make a fire. It’ll just take longer.” Drawing a pocket knife from his slacks, Mishka whittles down the edge of a stick, cuts a divot in a second one, and gets to work rubbing the whittled stick between his palms, creating friction just like I’ve seen in the movies.
I watch in fascination as it takes him several minutes, then the wood begins to smoke. With practiced ease, he feeds some kindling to the spark and leans close to gently blow on it. When the flame is strong enough, he moves it into the larger pile of wood, setting it in a sheltered little alcove of dried leaves and twigs that quickly catch light.
Impressed, I simply sit back, observing him until the fire’s warmth beckons me forward.
“I should take a look at that cut,” Mishka says, turning his attention to me now that the fire can sustain itself.
I watch as he approaches slowly, easing onto the ground beside me. His fingers find the knot of his tie at the base of my head, and he works it loose. He’s surprisingly gentle as he tips my head toward the light of the fire, his fingers parting my hair, which feels hard and caked with blood.
Biting back a groan as he touches tender flesh, I close my eyes and let him finish his inspection in peace.
“The good news is it doesn’t look as deep as I thought it might be. Head wounds do tend to bleed rather aggressively, but it looks like it’s pretty much stopped.”
“And the bad news?”
“I should clean it, which might not feel great. You ready?” He picks up the tiny first-aid kit and shuffles through the contents until he pulls out a pack of antiseptic wipes.
“Sure,” I agree. I lean on one palm, tipping my head in his direction to try and make it easier. But I can’t help the hiss that rushes past my teeth at the sting of the disinfectant.
