“What?”
“Just stop!”
Tucker hits the brakes, sending a cloud of dust around us. Before the truck has even stopped moving I scramble out. When the dust settles I’m standing in the middle of the road turning in a slow circle.
Then I walk in a daze toward the side of the road, brushing past the shadow of a big silver pickup in my mind’s eye. I turn, one foot leading the other, and move off into the forest. I faintly hear Tucker calling me, but I keep walking. I don’t know if I could stop even if I tried. I push on through the trees. Once I stumble, slipping to one knee on the needle-strewn ground, but even then I keep going, deeper into the forest, not even bothering to brush myself off.
And then I stop.
It’s all here. The little clearing. The ridge.
The air’s full of smoke. The sky a golden orange. Christian wearing his black fleece jacket, his hands tucked up into his pockets, hips slightly shifted to the side. He’s standing very still, looking up at the top of the ridge.
Oh God, I think. I can see the flames. I step toward him. Everything’s so dry. I lick my lips, glance down at my hands, which are shaking. It’s like I’m leaving my whole life behind in this moment. I’m so sad I could cry.
“Christian,” I croak out.
He turns. I don’t know how to read his expression. His strong, well-defined eyebrows are drawn together.
“It’s you,” he says.
“It’s me. I’m. ”
He crosses toward me. I keep walking to him. In another minute we both stop, arm’s length away from each other, and stare. I feel like I’m on drugs or something. I want to touch him so badly it feels like pain not to. I reach out. His hand wraps around mine. His skin’s so hot, feverish. I close my eyes for a second against the wave of sensation. Recognition blasts through me.
I open my eyes. He steps closer. His gaze brushes across my face like a touch. He looks at my lips, then my eyes, then my lips again. He lifts a hand to touch my cheek.
I’m crying, I realize, tears slipping down my cheeks.
“It’s really you,” he whispers. Then his arms are around me and the fire rushes at us, moving swiftly over the ground like a monster stalking us, clouds of thick, white smoke curling from its nostrils, crackling and roaring its warning. I press my body into Christian’s and summon my wings, grab at the air with all my strength, and push us skyward.
Only I don’t fly. I sink to the ground on the forest floor, my hands clutching at empty air, because Christian isn’t there. And then everything goes black.
I become vaguely aware of being carried. I know without even having to open my eyes that it’s Tucker carrying me. I’d be able to identify his sun and- man smell anywhere. My head’s lolling back across his arm, my arms dangling.
I’ve had the vision. Again. If vision is even the right word for it now. I’ve done so much more than see it. I’ve been there.
And apparently I fainted. Again.
I try to sit up a little, regain the use of my arms and legs, but the minute I move I start coughing. As if I inhaled some smoke. Tucker immediately stops walking.
“Oh thank God,” he says. “You’re okay.”
I don’t know if I’d go that far. Okay seems like the last thing that I am. I cough and cough and my lungs finally clear and I look up into Tucker’s crazy worried eyes and try to smile. And promptly cough some more.
“I’m fine,” I say. Hack, hack, hack.
“Hold on. We’re almost there.”
He starts walking again and in a couple minutes we’re back at the truck. He opens the back, grabs that big familiar blanket, and spreads it out, all with one hand as he holds me with the other. He lays me gently down into the bed of his truck. Then he climbs in beside me.
“Thanks,” I rasp. “You’re my hero.” Understatement. The coughing, at least, has stopped.
“What happened?”
I stare up at the sky, the big, fluffy clouds slowly lumbering over us. A tiny shiver passes through me. Tucker notices.
“You can tell me.”
“I know.”
I look at him. His sweet blue eyes are filled with so much love and concern it makes a lump rise in my throat.
“Are you all right? Do you need a doctor?”
“No, I just passed out.”
He waits. I take a deep breath.
“I had a vision,” I tell him.
Then the story comes tumbling out.
