“Ouch,” Tinker said. “What happened?”

“Had to fight some flying rat-bat thing. He got a hold of me at one point, clawed me. I hurt my shoulder pulling away.”

She decided not to mention the spiked red penis thing.

He handed her one of the beer cans he was carrying, watched her as she raised the can to her lips. It was magically cold. She drained the bitter liquid from it in a disappointingly few number of gulps, dropped it, and drew a sharp, wicked-looking knife from the belt around her hips. Slowly, carefully, and somewhat painfully she cut the top off her leather jumpsuit and pulled it down so that it hung at her waist. Under it she wore only a heavy sports bra. Both the bra and her torso were covered in blood. The slashing wound in her side had clotted, but she’d leaked more fluid than she’d realized. Her injured shoulder sagged.

“You got some muscles on you,” Tinker opined. “Not like a man’s, though.”

Rather unconsciously, the Angel thought, he flexed his weight lifter biceps showing from under his short shirt sleeves.

“No,” the Angel said. Gingerly, she slipped the bra strap off her damaged shoulder.

“And some boobies, too.”

Sudden anger flared through the Angel, overcoming her weariness. She locked eyes with Tinker.

“You know who my husband is,” she said.

“Yeah,” Tinker said.

“And what I’m capable of.”

“Just sayin’,” he said with a poorly concealed gulp. “I mean, we’re out here and all. Who knows if we’ll be alive this time tomorrow?”

Her anger turned to something else as she regarded him closely. He wasn’t exactly handsome and he stank. He had big muscles, though. Looked strong. She knew that she could break him if she wanted to. Who knows, indeed, what they could do, alone, out in the desert, to each other?

Her eyes closed momentarily and she swayed, barely catching herself before falling. What am I thinking? she asked herself. How can I think it?

“I—Sorry. Tired. Loss of blood.” She was babbling.

“Better wash out that wound before you dress it,” Tinker said, all business now.

The Angel looked at him with concern. “Is there enough water?”

Tinker laughed. “To clean wounds with? Right-o.”

He went off toward the small group of Kazakhs encamped a little down the road and came back lugging a plastic jerry can that looked to be about forty gallons.

“Need a hand?” he asked, dropping it at her feet with an effort-full exhalation of breath.

The Angel just shook her head. She lifted it by a single handle with her left hand, hefted it experimentally. It was almost full. Virtually without effort she lifted it over her head, flipping it like a bottle of Coke when it was in the proper position, and poured the tepid, plastic-smelling water over her head as Tinker looked on, impressed.