She got one of the pots and pans Hank had given her—bless his cocky black heart—and she dumped the rest of the whiskey into it. She tossed a lit match in the pan. And whoosh! Blue flames danced around the pan.
She laughed rather wickedly as she stuck a piece of wood into the flame.
A few minutes later she had the perfect fire. She picked up the empty bottle and grinned, then tossed it over her shoulder in the same who-needs-it kind of way Hank had tossed away things. Then she sat there, Annabelle in her lap as she watched the fire lick into the air.
She gave a big sigh. Cooking might not be so difficult after all.
* * *
Hank walked backupthe beach and felt someone’s stare. He looked up, and he saw Lydia standing there, her arms loaded with driftwood.
Odd, he’d have thought she would have stayed with Smitty. But she was looking off in the distance, toward the thick jungle and the volcano.
He closed the distance between them, then stopped when he was a few feet away from her.
She glanced back at him, then said, “I found some driftwood.”
Hank nodded at the crate. “Drop it in there.”
She started to take a step but stopped. “Do you think anyone will find us?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Hank! Hank!” Theodore came running up the beach. “Look what I found! Look!”
Another seashell, Hank thought with an internal groan.
Theodore tripped and fell, then quickly scampered up. He ran toward them with something in his hand.
Lydia touched Hank’s arm. “How do you know when a volcano erupts?”
Hank glanced back at her. “There’s smoke and ash in the air. Why?”
“Look.” She pointed toward the west. “Is that a volcano?”
Hank turned around. Above a thick grove of trees and bushes near the sand, a large and billowing black cloud rose into the air.
“That’s no volcano. That’s coming from the beach!” He dropped everything and took off running, the children following after him.
* * *
Muddy had completely forgottento explain to Theodore that he shouldn’t run. So he clamped a large pillow over his head and hung onto the bed, which he’d long ago bolted to the base of the bottle. A good thing, too. When Theodore ran, everything flew.
His head jiggled and bobbed and his knees banged against the divan. The bells on his shoes rang like sleigh bells, and the sound of his things crashing together echoed a hollow sound throughout the bottle.
At one point, the bottle slammed so hard he lost his grip and tumbled head over heels against the opposite wall.
Stunned, he sat up, his vision a gallery of blinking stars. He wobbled slightly and shook his rattled head.
Thankfully, the bottle had stilled. He stared at the mess, then planted his fists on his hips and said, “And Bowie Bradshaw thinks he’s got trouble.”
He heard a loud shout from a vaguely familiar voice. Actually, what he heard was a loud curse. Then it started all over—the running, then jostling.
Pillows sailed through the air. A wine jug broke loose from its fitting in the wall and spiraled toward him, crashing right above his head. A cupboard opened and fruit spilled out. Pomegranates, figs, kumquats, and dates rolled like billiard balls across the carpets.
His turban flew one way, he flew another. He smacked against the floor. Dazed, he struggled to sit up. A second later an ancient brass hookah came at him, tumbling end over end. He saw it coming. Fast.
The hookah slipped over his head, banging against his noggin with a loudbong!It was like having a palace gong clang through his head.
