And she came at me and we collided, briefly, before embracing—not forcibly (even violently), as had been the case on the jetty, but gently, softly. And then I handed her the flare gun.
“Take it—please,” I said. “It—it needs to be with you. And the boat.”
She hesitated, staring at the thing, before offering me the rifle, which I declined. Then she took it—the flare gun—decisively, resolutely, and stuffed it beneath her waistband.
“I’m going to wait for you as long as I possibly can, okay? Understand? Five minutes before I leave—I’m gonna to shoot a flare; that’ll be your signal to drop anything you’re doing and to run, not walk, back to this location.” She stared at me with conviction. “Okay?”
“Look, you don’t have to—”
“Ah, but I do,” she said, and held out her palm. “No less than yo
