He was already inside her when the lightning put a strobe on his face. She could smell the campfire smoke in his beard. The sleeping bag stuck to her ass as the tent went dark.

“We’re going to die in here,â€? he said. She could feel his hipbones on her own and she couldn’t decide if it hurt or made him want him more.

“Is that your version of poetry?â€? she asked. She tried to make it a playful, but over the thunder and creaking tent poles, it sounded like an accusation. He stopped moving.

“Poetic justice, maybe,â€? he said, sliding himself out unfinished. “Fuck it. Maybe a tree will fall on us.â€?

Jim and Patti had killed the last person they would ever see. Jim had a head full of crank and $600. Patti had her head out the window and a scream in her throat that would make her hoarse for the next three days.

The arm bone in the windshield barely bothered them when they found in the morning. Worse was flat tire and that everybody else they had seen in the past 24 hours had been dead, too.