“Not just in theory,” he reassured her. “If we hit bad air, it’ll absolutely get weak or even extinguish.”
“And if that happens...?” Tasha asked. “We retreat, right? Back to the pod? I’d like to know in advance, in case...” She cleared her throat. “I’ve heard that... well, hypoxia and you are not exactly best friends.”
Thomas sighed. “Why am I not surprised someone told you that story?”
“Stories, plural,” she told him a smidge too gleefully. “Probably because it’s the only thing you’ve ever been bad at as a SEAL—and well, that’s not your fault. You can’t train to be better at something like that, can you? A biological reaction. Your body responds the way your body responds.”
Hypoxia was a bitch. And the human body allegedly changed its response to hypoxia—the lack of oxygen—as one aged, which was why there were embarrassing stories, comma, plural, instead of embarrassing story, comma, one-and-done.
Navy SEALs needed to know what hypoxia felt like, so they could identify it when it was happening to them in a variety of situations, from scuba-diving to sky-diving to mountain climbing—or any other time there might be a lack of oxygen or an oxygen-tank fail. Because of that, at an annoyingly frequent schedule, as part of their ongoing training, Thomas and his SEAL teammates were put into an airtight tank—usually a hyperbaric chamber—where their oxygen was cut.
During this “test,” they were asked to solve math problems or carry on a conversation with someone outside of the tank, to chart how loopy they did or didn’t get as hypoxia kicked in.
Some of the guys in Team Ten could feel it from the jump—the result of the lack of oxygen in their bodies—and mark their symptoms as it got steadily worse, but not Thomas.
Nope.
Thomas’s consistent, as yet unchanging reaction was to go from absolutely fine—talking, walking, doing the math—to instantly, completely, no-warning, face-plant-on-the-ground unconscious.
But Tasha already knew that, thanks to, oh, he was going to say Rio, Mike, and possibly even Dave Patterson.
“Flame’ll go out long before I do,” he told Tash now, stopping. This was far enough for now. “But I’m seeing signs of maintenance—” he aimed the beam from his light at several examples of patches and repairs along the pipe “—so I doubt there’ll be an issue. Bad air’s the kind of thing we’d want to watch out for if, for example, we had to take cover from the hostiles in that cave I found.”
“Although, that’s why you asked me to gather up the candles in the pod,” she realized. “Not just for light in case the hostiles cut the power, but to make sure we still have oxygen, in case they started messing with the ventilation system.” She paused. “Hostile’s such a good word, especially since we don’t know who they are. Bad guys feels a little too... Scooby Doo.”
Hostile. Dollop. Tasha did love words.
“You still writing?” Thomas asked her as they turned and headed back to the pod to finish their prep, and then get some sleep. His plan was to wait until just before dawn to depart. “Novels, right?”
“Yeah, I am.” She sounded surprised. “Well, my word count’s been zero for the past few months, but... Who told you I was...?” She answered her own question. “Mia or Alan.”
“Mia,” he confirmed. “I was—” he cleared his throat “—less than thrilled about your personal assistant job, you know, working for Prince Ted, and she told me you took it, in part, because you had a lot of down time. Kind of the perfect job for a writer.”
Tasha laughed a little as he let her go first through the heavy door to the mudroom. “That got less true after I transitioned into being Ted’s fake-girlfriend. These days I have to show up for more events, which means I have to dress up and put on makeup. And that means I have to shop for suitable clothes—although Ted started doing that for me, since he grew up in that world. Still, it’s time-consuming, so my output has slowed way down.”
“I’d love to read it,” Thomas told her, locking the door to the tunnel behind him. “Whatever you’re working on.”
“Really.” She laughed a little as she blew out the candle and climbed out of the smaller door and back into the pod’s utility room, finally taking the towel off of her head. “It’s a YA—teen—historical, set in California just after the Civil War, heavy on the romance. I’m not sure it’s your thing.”
“Of course it’s my thing,” he said, following her. “You wrote it. It’s my thing.”
Tasha clearly didn’t know how to respond.
Because she was silent for so long, he started to back-pedal. “I mean, unless you don’t want me to—”
“No,” she said. “No! God! I just... I don’t...” Tears filled her eyes. “I want you to read it. And you being not just willing but enthusiastic is... It’s everything, Thomas, it really is. But I’m scared I won’t get the chance to share that—not just that, but my life; your life... I want a chance to have an our life, and I’m scared.”
Thomas set down the flashlight and the rifle, and moved in to wrap his arms around her. “Yeah, I’m a little scared, too,” he admitted softly.
She half-laughed, half-sobbed. “Thank you,” she said, holding him even more tightly. “For being honest.” She spoke in a fake-cowboy drawl—at least that’s what he thought it was meant to be. “Don’t you worry your pretty lil’ head lil’ lady, everything’s gon’ be jus’ fine. Thank you for not making me stab you with the shards of a peanut jar for saying something exceedingly annoying like that.”
He laughed. “I think maybe doing John Wayne impressions is a white-boyfriend thing. It lives in the same Venn diagram intersection as red-plaid pajama pants.”
Tasha lifted her head to look up at him, her face wet with tears, even though she was laughing a little, too. “Pants!” she said. “Or rather...” She pulled free from his embrace to use both of her hands for air quotes. “Pants.”
She wiped her face as she left the utility room, clearly on a mission.
Bemused, Thomas followed her out into the living room to watch her vanish into the bedroom, and ah, right, she’d told him she’d used up all the thread sewing him some...
“Pants” indeed.
Tash laughed at the expression on his face as she came out of the bedroom, holding them up for him to see. She’d used another of the dark blue fleece blankets—similar to the one he’d left back in the cave.
They were gigantic and fugly—and would be so much warmer than the thin plaid flannel he’d been wearing. The amount of time and effort she’d spent sewing this, by hand, was mind-blowing.
She held them up to his waist. “I figured too big was better than too small,” she told him. “We still have to figure out some kind of drawstring belt or suspenders so they stay on. Oh, and I also cut one of the white blankets into smaller pieces—I figured you could use them as socks, to keep your feet warm.”
“Thank you,” Thomas said, leaning down to kiss her. “This is... Thank you.”