Page 13

Canned peaches, one partially empty jar of salmon, three jars of water, two empty jars. I set the empty jars outside the shelter, open, to collect the rain whenever it starts falling again.

I set my pain pills next to the full jars. I could take another, but there are only four left. I might need them later, and it’s not like pain is a new experience for me.

I set the ax head on the far side of the overhang. I don’t want to accidentally kick it and slice my foot open in the night.

I sort through the rest quickly: wallet, keys, shampoo, deodorant, hairbrush, phone (I stare at it for about three minutes, wondering why it seemed so very important just a few days ago), phone charger, and a thriller I picked up in the airport book store. In the backpack I have a notebook—this notebook—and a bunch of pens as well, which at the time I dismiss as useless and set aside with the phone and all the rest.

I tuck everything under the ledge and pull the tackle box over to me. It takes a moment to force the box open, since the latches are stiff and my fingers are shaking.

Inside is a bounty. A knife, a flint and steel kit, fishing line, hooks, lures. If only I had a rod, I could be a fishing queen. And then my heart sinks.

The flint and steel kit. Fire. I haven’t gathered firewood. I haven’t even gathered tinder. I have to get up. I have to gather wood.

I think about getting to my feet, and start crying. I’m too tired. I hurt too much. I can’t do it. “I can’t,” I say. “I can’t get up. I can’t.”

I know I’m feeling sorry for myself, but I’m also right. I took the extra walk down to the canoe, and I flipped it over, which was idiotic when I was already hurting so much. I won’t be able to stand up and wander and bend over again and again to pick up fallen twigs and sticks and branches. I took that whole trip to find supplies to make a fire, and I can’t do it.

I’ve nearly killed myself by forgetting how close I already am to death, but I’m lucky, because I’ve forgotten about my most valuable possession: Bo.

I curl up under the overhang, tears wetting my cheeks. Bo crawls in beside me and lays down. He’s warm, his steady breathing soothing.

“We’ll be okay,” I tell him. “We’ll be okay until...”

Until.I say that word and it all comes crashing back. There is no until. No one’s coming for me. Which means that it isn’t enough to find food that my dad left behind; that will run out. I don’t need food; I need ways to get food, to make food. It isn’t just today, it isn’t just tomorrow, it isn’t just this week. It’s months and months, and maybe someday someone will come, but I can’t count on it. Can’t count on them. Just myself, and I’m one girl, who’s been in the woods for only a few weeks, who’s never had to survive. Who’s been hurt again and again. Funny how one word can change everything for you. Can save your life.

I’m not strong. But I’m smart. “We need a plan,” I say, resting against Bo’s side. “A really, really good plan.”

Bo whines.

With pain pulsing through my body, I slowly drift to sleep, the sound of rain pattering against the ground all around me.