We keep our heads down as we race west, in the direction of the caves. My feet slice to shreds against the rough coral rocks littering the ground. Wincing with pain, I wish I’d had the forethought to pull on Ian’s shoes before we left camp. There’s nothing to be done about it now. No time to stop, no possibility of abreak.
Much as I initially wanted to deny it… Beck was right. This storm will kill us, if we don’t reach sheltersoon.
By the time we burst from the trees by the western cliffs, I’m breathless and bleeding. There are scratches all over my arms and legs from racing through the thicket. Each step across the rocks leaves a bloody footprint as I limp toward the dark mouth of the cave. We stagger inside without preamble, leaning on the rock walls for guidance in the pitch black. There’s no light, nothing to see by. Every surface drips withmoisture.
“Beck?” I whisper, fear coursing throughme.
“I’mhere.”
I feel his hand lace with mine, squeezing to offer reassurance. Slowly, my eyes adjust to the dark. I can make out only the most basic of shapes — Beck’s silhouette, the closest wall, my own hand five inches in front of my face. The rest of the world is a mereshadow.
Thunder rattles the thick stone around us a scant instant after a flash of lightning splits the sky. The wind whistles louder than a banshee scream. I hear an unfamiliar rumbling sound and for an instant, I fear the rocks are caving in around us. I quickly realize it’s merely the sound of heavy rainfall, pummeling the roof above in an incessantonslaught.
The storm ishere.
Sinking to the frigid stone ground, we hold each other in the dark as the wind howls ever louder, feeling desperately fragile in the face of mother nature’swrath.
“I love you,” I whisper, the first time I’ve ever said the wordsaloud.
“I know,” he returns, kissing meblindly.
Chapter Seventeen
S Y M P H O NY
After three hours,the storm shows no signs of letting up. Huddled together for warmth, we shiver in the shadowy cave, frozen to the bone as the minutes tick by without any source of light or heat. The damp stone walls act as an icebox. I blow on my fingertips, flexing them to keep the bloodcirculating.
A few more hours of this, and hypothermia will setin.
“It’ll pass soon,” Beck assures me periodically. I can’t help noticing he sounds a shade less confident every time he saysit.
Robbed of my sight, I explore the contents of my backpack by touch. The fringed, flat-edges of the coloring book pages. The waxy tips of the crayons. The saw-toothed metal of my toiletry bag’s zipper. The toothpick-thin wood of our two remaining waterproofmatches.
Two.
Not nearly enough to keep the cave awash in light for hours on end. The paper coloring book would do well enough for starting a fire, but without driftwood kindling or dry leaves to keep it burning… we’d be back at square one within a matter of minutes. Marooned in the dark oncemore.
“Unless…” I murmur under mybreath.
“What?” Beckasks.
“I think I have anidea.”
I remove the contents of my backpack one by one. My numb fingers tingle as I grip the crayon box. Pulling a color out at random, I pass it toBeck.
“Hold this for amoment.”
His voice is wry. “Violet, as much as I’d love to color with you, this doesn’t seem like an opportune moment to explore ourcreativity—”
“Do shutup.”
He laughs in thedark.
Gripping one of the matchsticks between my fingers, I make sure I’ve got a steady hold on the side of the box before I strike. There’s a flash as the friction causes the tip to catch. I squint against the sudden brightness as the smell of sulphur drifts up into my nostrils. Before the match can fizzle out, I hold it to the tip of the crayon in Beck’s hand. It takes a moment to light, but eventually the waxy paper wrapping flares with heat and begins to burn like a tapercandle.
Beck shoots me an amused look as I gently take the flaming magenta stick from his grip. Tilting it at an angle, I let a few drops of melted wax fall to the stone floor, then press the flat end of the crayon into the pink puddle. After a few seconds, the wax dries and I pull my hand away, pleased when our makeshift flame remainsupright.
“Did you know?” I ask, grinning broadly. “Crayons make perfect emergencycandles.”