Robert was standing at the truck with one hand on the top of his head and the other on his belt when the flaming figure burst from the house and headed straight for him, blind and aimless, the sight of silent panic.
He caught the bundle and threw it to the ground. It flailed, trying to escape. He clawed at the fiery wrapping until it parted. A rug. The woman inside tore at the clothing over her head and ripped it off, coming up gasping.
“Katie,” he breathed.
She panted for fresh air.
Robert pinned her legs and beat at the orange tongues in the hem of her pants until they turned smoky. He reached for her shoes and burned his hand on the melted soles. He grabbed the towel. Or whatever it was. He used this to pull the shoes off her feet before they, too, started to ooze like wax.
The pads of her feet were merely pink. She had fresh burns on her ankles. Her clothes were blackened but intact. Her hands untouched. Her face—he could think of nothing else he wanted to look at.
Robert raised her by the shoulders and pulled her to his chest awkwardly on the ground, kissing every inch of her face. He laughed at the same time tears spilled onto his cheeks.
“Not again,” he whispered. “I couldn’t have gone through that again.”
Her breathing began to settle down. She placed her hand on his arm that surrounded her. “Where’s Janeal?”