CHAPTER 45
Phoebe
This has been the longest four hours of my life.
Evander is so angry that he won’t speak to me. Except for one exception—he conveyed detailed instructions about how to dig out an attached fire pit from inside the cave.
And while I did that, Evander tunneled down from above, creating an exhaust hole for the smoke. That’s been the only time we’ve met halfway on anything in the last four hours.
As we worked, the shack burned. I asked Evander if the heat would melt our little dugout shelter, and he shook his head to indicate the negative.
Nice talking with you.
No, I didn’t follow his orders to the letter.
Yes, I’d promised him that I would.
Sure, that means I broke that promise.
But if I hadn’t done what I did, when I did it, we’d be in a crap-ton of trouble right now. We’re both alive. We have the essentials we need to survive, for at least a bit longer.
I try not to dwell on what might have happened. But I can’t help but think that if I’d run out here to the shelter while Evander gathered supplies, like he told me to do, the building would have come down on him.
He’d be dead.
I’d rather have him pissed off at me than dead.
That said, it’s been unpleasant.
Once we completed the firepit, we turned our attention to increasing the size of the burrow. I shoveled snow. Evander scooped it up with the snow shovel and took it outside to discard. Then we scraped down the walls. Next, we leveled and smoothed the floor.
All in silence.
After that, we laid down one tarp as a layer of insulation, then the rug, and then the couch cushions and blankets.
Not a word.
As a final touch, Evander hung the other tarp in the arched entrance, as a way to block some of the wind and cold.
And now the sun is setting. We’re sitting in our snow hole while the storm rages on. Evander’s built a small fire, and I’m trying to convince myself I feel heat coming from it.
We’ve done all we can. The only thing left to do is wait for rescue. I know it’s coming. It has to be. This storm has to end.
Because I really don’t want to die out here.
Our snowbank shelter is about five feet by five feet, and about four feet high. And I’m in here with a pissed-off Evander MacLaine, aware that his standard version can take up every square inch of space in a hospital lobby.
Evander plus Evander’s anger makes this tiny indentation in the snow feel microscopic.
But maybe the flames shooting out of his ears will help heat the air.
I wrap my arms around my bent knees and look up at him. He’s glaring at me. We stare at each other.
It’s a very odd experience. Our eyes are the only exposed parts of our bodies at this point. But we know each other well enough now that we can get the message across.
Our chat’s going something like this:
You didn’t do what I told you to, Phoebe.
And we’re damn lucky that I didn’t, Evan.
But you could have been killed.
I wasn’t, and you need to get over it, because I’m really scared that there’s still plenty of opportunity for us both to die and I don’t want to do that knowing you’re angry with me.
Evander’s sleeve was cut by glass. I see how the sliced nylon of his coveralls melted, then shrank and curled away. This allowed the heat to penetrate whatever was left of the layers of wool, polyester, and cotton to contact his skin. His arm was burned.
He won’t let me look at his injury. He just slapped a gauze bandage over it and kept digging, but even as the darkness moves in, I can see his bandage is soaked with blood.
The burn needs to be cleaned. I worry the gauze will stick to his dermis if he doesn’t let me help him.
We’re both drinking the water Evander melted in the pan. I think I’m a bit dehydrated. But I also know that the more I drink the more I’ll have to pee.
I can’t even wrap my head around how awful that’s going to be in the darkness.
Evander shoveled out a small area near the ATV and built a raised platform with a hole.
I’ve already used it once, having no choice but to yank everything down to my boots and then put it all on again while some of my favorite body parts turned into popsicles.
I miss the shack’s cold, dark back room with the curtain and the wash bowl.
And I’m hungry. My eyes go to the pitiful stack of food against the snow wall. Two cans of Beefaroni. One can of green beans. One packet of electrolytes and two protein bars.
I’m about to make an executive decision and grab a can of Beefaroni, when the repeating sound of pop-pop-pop-pop-pop! cuts through the wail of the wind.
Evander hurls his body toward me, pushes me off the cushion, and pins me flat. He lies on top of me until the sound stops. I think I know what that was.
We didn’t have time to grab everything from inside, and among the items we left behind was Evander’s shotgun and ammo, which I guess has just exploded from the heat.
I feel him breathing hard. But he’s not moving, and I’m squished under the weight of his body. Terror slices through me.
“Are you hurt, Evander?”
“No.”
I let out a sigh of relief. But he’s still not lifting up from me.
“I’m sorry, baby.”
The words—and the humility I hear in his voice—instantly eliminates the awkwardness of the last four hours.
“It’s my fault,” I tell him. “I promised to follow your instructions and I didn’t. I’m so sorry. I know you were only thinking of my safety. Please forgive me for being so—”
He reaches up, pulls down my face mask, then his, and drops a hard kiss on me.
One of his gloved hands strokes my face while his lips move over mine.
The kiss isn’t sexual. It’s not like we could get naked in here even if the need struck. I think this hidey-hole is a sex-free zone.
Another reason we need to be rescued.
This kiss is meant to reassure me, and it does just that.
Evander raises up enough to slip an arm under me. He holds me close for a minute, then pulls up his balaclava and mine.
His eyes are smiling. My eyes smile back.
We share one can of Beefaroni—I take about a third of it and he takes the rest. Then we each eat a protein bar.
I want to eat everything, but we can’t. We have no idea how much longer we’ll be out here, and with the shotgun out of the picture, there’s no longer even the remote possibility of hunting.
Since we have our masks lowered to eat, we talk.
“I need a steak,” Evander says. “I feel my muscle tissue breaking down from lack of protein and calories.”
“You said you’re a fan of intermittent fasting.”
He looks up and me and grins. “Right, but my version is twelve hours between steaks. Going eight hours between scoops of Chef ‘Boy-are-we-ever-fucked’ isn’t what I had in mind.”
I laugh. “You’ll be fine. You’ve consumed at least some protein and calories.
Besides, it would take several days before your body starts breaking down muscle glycogen into glucose.
” I finish the last bit of my protein bar.
“I could really go for a cheese omelet with bacon on the side right about now. Maybe pancakes, too, with a lot of butter.”
That’s when I look up to see Evander staring at me with a puzzled look on his face.
“What?”
“It’s been several days. We’re heading into day four.”
He’s right. I sit there unable to move for a long moment. “I’m starting to get really scared.”
“I know. Come over here, Phoebs.”
I crawl toward him. He adjusts into a cross-legged position and pats one of his thighs. “Have a seat.”
“Did you just call me Phoebs?”
“Is that okay?”
“Sure. You can call me anything you want.” I’m smiling to myself.
“Are you okay with ‘baby’?”
“Yep, which is lucky for you, since you’ve already called me that.”
“I have?”
“I’m not a fan of ‘babe’, though. It feels a little cringey to me.”
“Noted. How do you feel about ‘Sweetheart’ or ‘Sweetie’?”
“Fine.”
“‘Hunny-bunny’? ‘Angel’? ‘Cupcake’? ‘Boo?’”
“Maybe we should keep it simple.”
I feel the low rumble of his laugh through the many layers of cold weather gear.
“And how about you, Evander?”
“Hey, hey, now.”
“I’ve given this topic a lot of thought.”
“I’m sure you have.”
“Everyone within a five-hundred-mile radius knows we’re not allowed to use of ‘Ev’ or ‘Van’ or ‘Der’, but how about ‘Evan’?”
“You already tried that. Please, no.”
“‘Vander’? Or maybe just ‘Ander’? How about ‘And’ or ‘E.V.’?”
“How about we decide on ‘Evander’ because that’s my name and then we just move on? Have you ever had a nickname?”
“Yeah. My brothers call me ‘Pea’.”
“Imma need the spelling for that.”
“P-e-a, like the little, round vegetable. Mason called me that because he couldn’t pronounce my name. He was just eighteen months old when I was born. It’s stuck.”
“Is Mason the baseball player?”
“No. Mason’s the MMA fighter. Bo’s the baseball catcher.”
“Right.”
“Jake still calls me ‘Pea’ almost all the time.” I swallow hard after hearing myself say his name out loud. A wave of sorrow washes over me. Four days! My poor family.
I feel Evander’s arm pull me tight to him. I can’t help but glance down at his forearm.
“You’ve got to let me take a look at that,” I say. “I’m serious.”
I feel the air release from his lungs in surrender. “Fine.”