I make one final, painful tug on the ropes.
Then I watch in horror as my backpack gets blown open and my notebook flutters out. The pages are like leaves.
And when they get close enough to the flames, they become kindling for the fire.
The whole thing whooshes up into the sky, angrier and hungrier than before.
It isn’t coming for me yet, but just like the scariest villains, sometimes they’re the ones you least expect.
“Happy, gods?” I yell. “I’m a virgin set aflame to bring order back to the world. In return for my soul, I pray that you resolve the global supply-chain disaster of 2022!”
That’s a noble goal. Last month when Aunt Flo arrived, I drove around to five different stores and couldn’t find any supplies.
Then it hits me. I’m never gonna have my period ever again. I’m never gonna have kids. Or a man who loves me. It’s crushing.
I pull on my restraints with new ferocity, digging deep into my inner strength, running on pure adrenaline, but the fire is getting closer as I struggle to escape.
I glance over at the guy. He’s still coming toward me, but until just a second ago, he seemed to be walking slowly.
Now he’s walking faster.
“Help!” I scream as the flames catch on some more dry leaves. At some point, someone must have spilled some alcohol near here because there is some kind of accelerant pushing the path of flames toward my feet.
They scramble back against the tree as I look up.
Maybe I can shimmy up this thing. Head to higher land.
But it wouldn’t be higher land. I’d have a huge drop with the white-hot fiery ground to catch me.
I look to my left and wonder what’s taking the guy so long to get to me. But now he isn’t stalking forward slowly. Now he’s running. He’s broken out into a wild sprint as he dodges branches and uses tree trunks to grab on and maneuver himself down the hill.
He’s wearing a white dress shirt and slacks with a black tie and jacket. I guess he didn’t have time to put on the right outfit to transform himself into a proper mountain man running to rescue the poor damsel about to be devoured by flames.
The guy skids down a patch of hill where the ground is muddy, falls back on one hand, then grabs on to a branch and leaps his way forward into a narrow streak of sunlight cutting through the mighty, tall trees.
He races for the fire, tearing the jacket from his shoulders, making the seams pull and rip as he throws it on the flames. He wrangles the fire like a man wrangling a horse at the rodeo. He stomps on the fire to pummel the frightening lure of the licking, smoldering flames to their unnatural, untimely death.
The fire starts to burn his jacket, but he doesn’t seem to care at all.
He runs to me. He dives. It’s a surreal moment, having someone else in total control, with pure and absolute power over what’s about to happen to me.
I’m having an out-of-body experience. Maybe I’m already dead.
I jolt when I see his face, the way he moves with such exact, succinct, focused precision.
Maybe I am dead after all. Maybe I’m in heaven.
His eyes are squarely on my bound feet. He grips the rope with both hands, a fist-length apart, and with one heavy tug, the rope breaks and frays at the ends with the strength of his force.
This guy’s bare hands are more effective than a knife.
I kick my legs, and the torn rope falls to the ground.
“Thank you,” I whisper as I look down at him.
His eyes are huge and green, and they widen when he looks at me. His lips are slightly parted, the kissable bulls-eye on a ruggedly handsome face. His dark brown hair and beard are threaded through with silver. He’s slightly past the stage of starting to go gray—he is gray, mostly, and he’s just gorgeous.
“You’re going to be okay. I’m getting you out of here.”