The third morning dawned, if not with sunshine, then with a noticeable decrease in the incessant drumming of rain. The jungle floor was still a quagmire, the air thick and heavy, but a sliver of weak, hazy light occasionally pierced the canopy. The reprieve, however, brought little comfort. Their water supply was critically low, and the small bird from last night was a distant memory. Hunger and thirst were beginning to gnaw.
Amara woke up still pressed against the pilot’s side, his arm a familiar weight around her. For a fleeting, dangerous moment, she didn’t want to move. The warmth, the solid strength of him, was a potent antidote to the gnawing fear. She felt an unnerving intimacy with this man, an intimacy forged in the crucible of fear and survival, one that bypassed all her careful
