"Want me to remove my pants, too?" he asked dryly. At least he'd picked a hot, nympho chick to be his mind-companion and not a nasally old man.

Idiot! she huffed, a blush dripping from her tone. Take off your shirt, clasp the opposite ends in your hands, and hook the material around the rock

His eyes widened as he studied the distance of the rock again. That might actually work. For the first time in days, he laughed with genuine amusement. He might be schizophrenic and teetering on the brink of total insanity, but he was also a freaking genius.

The woman—it was hard to continually think of such a distinctive, seemingly real voice as merely an extension of himself—sighed, why did the gods have to pick you?

Her dejection caused his smile to grow. "I could ask myself the same question, babe."

Reaching behind him, he gripped the neck of his shirt and tugged it over his head. With one end of the camouflage material in his left hand and the other in his right, he leaned forward and tossed the looped shirt at the rock. He missed.

He tried again and missed.

Okay, so he seriously needed to increase the hours he spent at target practice.

The sand now reached his waist. He continued to lean and toss until the shirt finally anchored solidly. He gave a hard jerk and stopped sinking.

Now pull.

"I know what to do." He pulled, using all of his strength. His arms burned from the strain. The sand grasped at him like strong, greedy fingers, holding him in place.

Grimacing, he continued to hoist up his two hundred pounds of muscle. His shoulders popped, the weight straining sockets and bones. The sand continued to tighten its embrace, burning the wound in his leg. The teeth marks in his neck throbbed against the exertion, perhaps even split open because he felt a trickle of something warm and wet on his skin.