They shoot, storming through the suite and onto our third-floor balcony, framing us in proposal position, climbing over each other to get a better angle.

“Jackie! Dollface! Look over here!”

I scream, “Brett!”

Brett is frozen, still on bended knee.

“Get up!” I yell again. “Let’s get out of here!”

The sound of the helicopter grows louder.

“Brett!”

His eyes widen, then he blinks, shakes his head, gets on all fours, scurries under the room service table, and covers his face with the jelly-stained tablecloth, sending bits of croissant tumbling down through the iron railings of the balcony. A seagull swings past in time to pluck a fat buttered crumb out of the air.

I will him to come, to carry me through the crowd the way he did in Space Warriors. But he’s cached behind a hedge of legs and equipment.

Searching for escape, I look to the door and see Nicole battling through the crowd. Nicole, my angel. How did she know I would need her?

“Over here,” I cry, but the crashing waves and whirring helicopter blades swallow my voice. I wave my arms hoping she’ll see me. The rat-a-tat of a dozen cameras explodes around me capturing my gesture. Nicole swivels this way and that, lost in the melee. Behind her, more paparazzi push forward, cameras cocked.

Brett, now on his belly, crawls stealthily beneath the hordes—a move he learned for the Vietnam sequence in Month of Heroes.

His goddamn publicist must’ve ratted us out.

“Brett, wait!” I try to follow, but the troops surge, swallowing the gap between us and slamming me against the balustrade.

Arms and legs wedge against me; an elbow rams my breast as a fat man struggles to untangle the cameras choking his neck. I squirm away and pull myself onto a sturdy, cast iron chair from where I see the full picture: Panavision. Cameras and sound equipment, photographers shoving. They shoot blindly, our blood scent in their snouts. On my left, the pixie-blonde from Entertainment Tonight, on my right the toupee-guy from Variety. Towering over all is the Australian from the Enquirer in his trademark tan suit.

Another helicopter appears on the horizon.

“Hey, Jackie!”

“Jackie Gold! Hey, is that you?”

“Where’s Brett, Jackie?”

Down on the patio, hotel guests are shouting and pointing.

“Jaks!” Nicole sees me now. I wave.

“We want Brett! We want Brett!”

“Nicole help!”

She battles toward me, knocking the pixie-blonde out of the way but gets blocked behind the ET crew.