Page 5 of Proof Of Life

Right now, he’s both. “How’s that blister on your foot?”

“What blister?”

“The one you were complaining about like a baby yesterday.”

“I was not,” he defends with a laugh.

“Were, too. It’s probably bleeding into your sock right now. Give me your foot.”

I grab for his boot, and he kicks my thigh. “I can take off my own boot.”

A heavy sigh accompanies the rolling of my eyes, and I shove him in the chest. “Lie down and give me your foot.”

“Fine,” he huffs, “if you wanna rub my feet so bad, you can take it off yourself.”

West lies down on his bedroll and shoves his foot in my gut.

“I’m not going to rub your damn foot, princess. I just don’t want it getting infected when your blister pops.” He huffs again and I have to bite back my grin. Such a tough guy. Such a faker. “You still have that ointment I gave you?”

“Side pocket,” he grunts.

I dig the tube from his ruck. “It’s almost empty. When we get back to base, I’ll get you another one.”

“I can get my own tube, thanks.” He sounds so petulant as I unlace his boot.

“I know you can, but I also know you won’t. Not until the damn blister is infected.” He glares, and I glare right back, peeling his sock from his foot. “Go ahead, tell me I’m wrong.”

“Shut up and rub my foot.”

I have to fight the urge to dig my thumb into the blister, to prove a point, and to shut him up. Then I regret it when I apply the ointment, and he sighs with relief and pleasure. So, I end up rubbing his fucking foot. It isn’t completely terrible.

As I continue to rub small circles over his heel, he becomes more relaxed, quieter, until I swear he’s fallen asleep. But then his eyes pop open, and a grin spreads across his face.

“You hear that?”

Instantly, I’m on guard, my body tensing for a threat. I still, listening but hearing nothing. He realizes I don’t get it and his grin stretches wider.

“The storm, it stopped.”

He’s right. All I hear is silence. No howling wind. No grains of sand pelting against the walls of the tent. Touching his skin had drugged me into such a deep, hypnotic state I hadn’t even noticed the storm had ceased. West sits up and grabs his boot, and when it’s laced up again, he crawls out of the tent.

“Come on, Nurse Aguilar.”

The plastic crates we sat on earlier are half buried in sand. Tommy, Micah, and Rosie emerge from their tents like turtles poking their heads out of their shells. They kick the sand off the crates and resume their seats.

West heads away from the group. “Let’s check out the Humvee. I want to wipe the sand off the windows, in case we have to clear out in a hurry.”

The concrete blockade had shielded most of the sand from smothering the armored vehicle and our tents. I’m grateful for West's foresight in choosing our spot. He’s a kick-ass team leader. He grabs a towel from beneath his seat and begins to wipe down the windows, while I dig drifts of sand away from the tires with a small entrenching tool. Then he climbs up on the hood and clears away the debris. West smacks his hand down on the metal top.

“Climb up here.” When I’m seated beside him, with my long legs stretched out like his, he points to the sky. “Look up. There must be a million stars out tonight.”

We lie back against the windshield so we don’t have to crane our necks. The stars glow like neon lights. It’s a beautiful sight. Every once in a while, the desert wasteland gives you something to appreciate, like a gift for having endured its misery.

I breathe out a deep sigh of appreciation, beginning to truly relax for the first time today. “You know what this means, right?” The words aren't even out of my mouth before we feel the first fat drops of rain.

“There it is,” he agrees, laughing. It always rains after a storm.

“Like Mother Nature washing away the dirt and beginning anew.”

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