Page 12 of Touchdown

Hard to scribble a message when I didn't have anything to scribble with.

Noah's golden body shifted beautifully as he fumbled to get his toga tugged and knotted back into place. The pillowcase of supplies was tangled up in the fabric, making the job harder.

A fine time to be ogling the boyfriend.

Boyfriend? Is that what he was?

I pushed the thought away. No time for that now.

A part of me wanted to help him.

Another part of me wanted to stand back and admire the show.

The stranger was more interested in adjusting his straw hat. Once he had it how he wanted it, he looked around for the backpack he'd dropped while feeding his feathered friends. Grinning triumphantly, he thrust it in my direction.

I didn't need Microsoft Translator to know I was supposed to take it.

He wasn't going to save us, but we'd saved him a long hike up the mountain.

Glad somebody was having a good day.

When you don't have anything new to try, keep trying what already didn't work.

“Look.” I pronounced every word—every syllable—with painful precision. “SOS. That means save our ship, only we ain't got a ship. Just us.”

He smiled his usual uncomprehending smile. Nodded his usual nod.

“You're going to send back help for us, right? You know we need to get out of here, right? Vacation's over. We want to go home.”

Still nodding and smiling, he began to ease the dugout into the water.

“Well, that went well.” I turned to Noah.

He was finally decent again.

Too bad, if you ask me. If help wasn't on the way, we weren't in dire need of being decent.

Chapter 8

We'd missed the boat. Our ship had sailed. All the usual cliches applied.

Noah kicked lightly at the backpack I'd let slip through my fingers to the sand. “It isn't too late. You could still tackle him. You're fast enough.”

The lack of heat in his voice told me what he really thought. No need for me to say anything.

It wasn't about how fast I was.

His hand found my hand. Squeezed. Standing hip to hip, we watched as the dugout glided away over turquoise water.

“So they hire a local guy to make the drops who doesn't speak English,” I finally said.

“Or Spanish,” Noah said. “It's logical, I guess. Hire some guy who doesn't understand what the crazy tourists are saying. It's another way to keep their distance from the crime.”

“The lack of clothes and shoes wasn't just a physical barrier to escape,” I said. “They're a social and psychological barrier too.”

Noah nodded. “Yeah. You don't have to tell me.”

Dressed in a bedsheet, you were a lunatic party guy goofing around for fun. Even if you tried to convey a sense of urgency, you'd be perceived as somebody getting silly.

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