Page 62 of To Catch a Firefly

Coming up with an idea, I wave Lucky down.

“I’m going to leave my phone here,” he says, setting it on the top step. “Just in case it gets service. We can keep yours with us.”

Good idea.

Lucky joins me back on the dirt floor, his hand running a trail along my back. “Got a plan, big guy?”

I nod, and the two of us set to work creating a temporary shelter beneath the tornado-ravaged house. After that, all we can do is wait.

Chapter 22

Lucky

“Peaches or beans?” Ellis asks, holding out two mason jars. We’re hunkered down under the storage shelf we’re using as a barrier. After removing all the jars, we dragged it over to the corner of the room deemed most stable. Using the washing machine as a prop on one end, we wedged the shelf against the wall and laid it at a forty-five degree angle, giving us a small space to hide beneath. If the ceilingdoesfall, hopefully, the shelf will protect us from large debris.

I’m trying not to focus too heavily on thehopefullypart of the plan.

“Peaches,” I answer, accepting the opened jar. At least the homeowners had some canned goods down here. I’d feel bad about eating their food, except I think they’re going to have bigger fish to fry than a few missing jars of produce.

Ellis snaps a bean off in his mouth before leaning his head back against the washing machine. The poor guy is stretcheddown so low, his back is bent like a C, and his knees are spread wide so that he fits beneath the shelf. It’s easier for me, but I do admit my eyes have strayed more than once to that wide open space between Ellis’s legs.

The radio is still on, but at this point, it’s cycling information we already know. Without a way to contact the outside world, we don’t have any option but to wait for someone to come find us. It’s been three hours so far and nothing.

I eat a few peaches before setting the jar aside. I don’t have much of an appetite.

“El?”

He grunts.

“How are you feeling about all this?” I ask gently.

He turns his head to look at me, brows furrowed a little.

“Us,” I clarify. We’ve been rightfully preoccupied by the aftereffects of the tornado, but it’s a question that hasn’t left my mind.

He doesn’t answer for the longest time, but his hand comes up to toy with a piece of my hair. It’s such a simple gesture, but it’s something I’m not sure he would have allowed himself to do so casually before.

“Scared,” he finally says.

My breath catches. “Why?”

“Can’t lose you, Luck,” he answers, voice a whisper.

“You won’t,” I breathe.

“When…” he starts, pausing a moment. “Do you go?”

My heart sinks, but I don’t have time to answer him before there’s a shout from above. I jerk, as does Ellis.

“Down here!” I yell.

It’s hard to make out whatever they’re saying, but I think I hear something about staying back from the door. I grab Ellis’s hand, my heart pounding. We’re going to be okay.

Ellis and I are still and quiet as we listen to whoever is above ground trying to clear a path. It’s impossible to tell how many people there are or even what they’re doing. But there’s a bunch of muffled sounds—scraping, thunks, what might be a saw—and every once in a while, more dust rains down into the cellar. I grip Ellis’s hand a little tighter each time that happens.

Eventually, after a half hour or so, the noises become more distinct. And then there’s a voice.

“Hello?”

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