“Abdominal thrust maneuver,” I say once I have my breath again. “That’s what it’s called now.”
Sadie’s face scrunches up in confusion. “Whatwhatis called? Your coughing fit?”
“The Heimlich,” I reply. “They changed the name.”
She doesn’t ask why, and it’s a good thing, because I don’t remember the specifics.
“I’m glad you’re okay,” she finally says, watching as my breathing returns to normal. “Should I be worried? Do you have some sort of condition?”
Oh, just the Spontaneously Picturing Us in Bed Together condition, my brain unhelpfully fills in.
“No condition,” I reply. “Just a fluke coughing fit. Maybe I kicked up a lot of dust while I was checking the tent?”
Sadie glances around the clearing, which isn’t overly dusty at all. Now that I’m not on the verge of asphyxiation, I notice she has her iPhone in hand.
I nod to it. “Were you actually able to get a signal down here?”
She sighs. “Not even a little. I was hoping to text my best friend, Abby, and let her know I haven’t died.” After a brief pause, she adds, “Yet.”
I laugh, which turns into yet another cough. I take another sip of water, clear my throat. “You might be able to get a single bar if you go up a little higher. It’s too late to try tonight, but I can show you a good place tomorrow, if you want.”
The last thing I need is to be making plans with Sadie.
But her face lights up—probably because it’s the first time I’veencouragedher phone addiction instead of telling her to put it away—and I know I’ll be making good on that offer.
“Maybe after sunrise yoga?” she says hopefully.
Nothing excites me less than the idea of sunrise yoga.
That must be obvious, too, because she laughs. “Not a yoga guy?”
“I’m the least flexible person on the planet.”
“That’s impossible,” she says, shaking her head, “becauseIam the least flexible person on the planet.”
“Nope. You haven’tseeninflexible yet, Sadie. I promise I’m the worst.”
“Guess you’ll just have to prove it,” she says, eyes flashing playfully. “Tomorrow. At sunrise.”
I see what she’s done.
“I regret this already.” I try to sound extra grumpy about it, but I can tell she’s not buying it.
This is going to be a disaster—
But I’ll do it for her.
“Knock, knock,” a voice says flatly, interrupting the moment.
I turn, and there’s Matteo, arms crossed and leaning against a pine tree.
“Any chance you’ve got a spare tarp?” he asks.
“I’ve only got the one.”
“Can I use it tonight?”
“What for?” I ask, my curiosity getting the better of me.
