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So I stand, shaking and shivering in next to nothing while Lazarus scouts for an open grave—and finds one a few rows away from our original meeting spot.

“There’s no room to roll the tarp out completely.”

“That’s okay. We’ll take that picture over here, and then move to the grave,” I whisper, shedding my sweater and panties. I wasn’t wearing a bra. I wasn’t wearing socks. I was at home, in someone’s borrowed camper, miserable.

And now I’m naked with a guy who’s given me the first true pleasure I’ve had in years, who saved my life—and who also might end it. I shake out the tarp and ease onto it, going limp and sprawling on my side.

Lazarus is beside me in seconds, camera flashing over my face in the dark of a cold December night. At least the moon is high.

My brain and body start to shut down from the cold. Lazarus rolls me onto my back, and I flop like an overcooked piece of spaghetti. “Getting your face in the picture so they don’t think it’s fake,” he mumbles, then starts wrapping the tarp around me, rolling me up in it. “I’ll drop you in all rolled up. But wait, wouldn’t your face be covered then?”

“I’ll scoot down inside,” I agree, teeth chattering.

“It’s just another couple of minutes, Vic, then I’ll get you all warmed up, okay?”

I want to smile, but I’m keeping my face locked in the same “dead” pose it was in a few seconds ago.

“Okay, little bump.”

Lazarus leans down as far as he can before dropping me. Cold, packed earth meets my head, and wet, crumbly dirt finds its way into my hair.

I don’t flinch or shudder. I’m too sleepy.

Flash. Flash. Click.

“Pull your head in. Victoria! Pull your head in!”

I do, but it’s such a struggle. Clearly, I was not meant for naked winter sports. I’m sure the lingering combo of whiskey and migraine pills isn’t helping.

“Got it! Sit up.”

I try.

Fail.

“Victoria!”

“Coming!” I shout, but it’s just a mumble.

“Oh, fuck.” Lazarus sounds panicked. I appreciate his panic. “Let’s get you inside.”

For the second time in my life, this monster crawls into a grave after me and pulls me out.

I’m sure there’s symbolism in there somewhere, in the frozen wastes of my brain.

But he doesn’t take me to his crypt. I’m back in my car, the heater blasting, still in a tarp burrito.

The world is coming back into focus, inch by inch.

Lazarus is speeding in my car, hunched over the wheel because he didn’t bother to adjust the seat, and he’s so much bigger than me. Heat blaring. My sweater, undies, and shoes piled in my lap.

“We’re going to the apartment. I’m making you something hot.”

“RV?” I mumble.

“Yeah, well, it’s not very big or very warm. You need to be here for a few hours while I check on you and send Pazcuso that message. I’d have asked you back to my crypt, but it’s freezing, and I need to get some actual food into the place. I do have something to cook on now. Rhea got me one of those little camping two-burner things. Hey. Hey, are you okay? Like, if you die on me after we pretend you died on me, I’m going to get some kind of a complex.”

I manage a smile as I swim back towards full alertness. “I like you,” I mumble.