George climbed back inside, pressed a handkerchief to his mouth and nose, and knelt next to Irene. “Can you talk, sweetheart?”

“She needs water, for God’s sake!”

Raoul had already unstrapped his canteen and held it to Irene’s lips. “She has had the baby?” he asked quietly.

“Yes,” said Sam. “Back in Bilbao. He lived for thirty-two minutes. I buried him with my own hands.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” said George, “but it’s probably for the best.”

Sam stood up on his knees, hauled up George by his collar, and drew back his fist. But he did not punch. His left leg crumpled underneath him, and he collapsed on the metal deck next to Irene.

George straightened his collar and knelt back down. “Darling, we’ll get you out of here, I promise. I’ve got a doctor waiting in Valencia—”

“What about Sam?”

George glanced at Sam. “I’m afraid someone will have to come back for Mallory. The airplane won’t take a fourth passenger.”

“But Sam’s hurt. He needs a doctor too.”

“We’ll leave water for him. I’m sure this fellow will be back in a jiffy. Won’t you, Velázquez?”

Raoul was checking Irene’s bandage and didn’t answer.

“George, you should stay. You’re not hurt. Sam—”

“Damn Mallory! That—that bastard there, he’s the reason you’re dying in this godforsaken desert in the first place! The reason you’re not safe on an ocean liner heading back to America. He’s going to kill you one of these days, don’t you realize?”

Sam spoke up. “Irene flew to Spain on her own, Morrow. She flew here to escape you, as a matter of fact. You and that prison you’ve built around her—”

“Prison? You’ve got a nerve, you son of a bitch. I’ve set her free! Free to fly on her own, instead of second best to the goddamn magnificent flying ego of Sam Mallory! Do you know how frantic I’ve been? Held back the damned press, chartered a flight to Alicante, bribed a dozen officials to track her down on the crazy chance that—”

“Gentlemen,” said Raoul, “I’m afraid Miss Foster has fainted.”

Raoul carried Irene aboard the airplane they had flown from Valencia. Mallory watched them go, watched Morrow jump down from the broken Potez and into the sunlight. He dusted off his hands and stuck his head back inside.

“I imagine you already know this, Mallory,” he said, in a kind voice, “but there will be no airplane sent back to rescue you. You’re on your own. And if you do survive, by some miracle, you stay the hell away from my wife from now on. Is that clear?”

Mallory spoke through cracked lips. “Go to hell, Morrow.”

Morrow shook his head and turned away. As he walked across the sand, he called back, over his shoulder, “Just remember, this was your doing, Mallory.”

Hanalei, Hawai’i

November 1947