Page 17

After

MY FIRST MORNING under the overhang I wake up warm on one side and frozen on the other. Every muscle in my body aches. I press myself against Bo and whimper. He licks my cheek, then heaves to his feet. I protest—come back—but he’s already gone, trotting off into the clearing.

I stay curled on my side, my mom’s photo in my hand. My thumb covers the version of me in the photo, leaving just Mom, looking right at me. I lie there for a long time. I don’t think I can do anything else. I try to sleep again, but it’s too cold; the clouds are still thick over the sky and dew dampens everything. I should have changed my clothes before I fell asleep. If it wasn’t for Bo, I might have frozen to death in my wet jeans.

At least I have other clothes. And food and water—two rain-filled jars, safe to drink without boiling, and the three from the lake whenever I can get a fire started.

But my food and my water and my clothes are down at my feet, and I can barely move.

I gather my strength for about thirty seconds, and then I roll onto my belly. I pull myself with my arms and push with my good leg, and get myself facing around the other way. The overhang is even better than I thought. Even with the rain that fell overnight it’s dry and dusty; I’m the only wet thing under here.

I have to get into dry clothing. My rain shell’s kept my torso dry and relatively warm, but my legs are freezing. First, though, I grab the jar of salmon. Propping myself up on one arm, I cram three fingers into the jar and pull out chunks of pink meat.

I have never tasted anything so good. It’s oily and salty and it breaks easily over my tongue, and I have to stop myself from wolfing down the whole jar. Just a few bites.

I won’t be moving much, so I won’t be expending many calories. I can afford to eat slowly. I can’t afford to run out of food.

Then I take one of the moose jars I’d filled with water and sip down about a quarter of it. I didn’t have much to drink yesterday, so I have a real drink today. But I’m still going to have to ration, in case it doesn’t rain, in case I can’t get the fire going.

Then it’s the hard part. I flip onto my back and undo the fly of my jeans. I’m going to get dirty; there’s no way around that. My legs are wet and I don’t have anything underneath me to keep the dirt off, but dirt won’t kill me.

I work my jeans down my hips. I brace my good leg against the ground and lift my butt up enough to shove them down farther.

The wet fabric clings to my skin and my back twinges with the effort, but the jeans slide down to my thighs. I hesitate a moment before shoving my underwear down, too.

My face heats with embarrassment. “Don’t be stupid,” I hiss to myself. “There’s no one here to see you.”

Still blushing and hating myself for it, I manage to get my jeans bunched down to my ankles. Only then do I think about taking off my boots. I groan.

I’m going to have to sit up.

I squeeze my eyes shut and breathe raggedly. I already hurt so much. Tears well behind my lids at the thought of having to do more.

I reach for the pill bottle, pop the lid off with my thumb. Not many left. But saving them won’t do me any good if I don’t last long enough to use them. I swallow one with a mouthful of moose water and let myself lie still, loose clothes covering my bare legs to keep them warm.

When the aches start to fade a bit, I know it’s time. I brace my hands under me and ease myself up.

It’s like everything is tearing all over again. I cry out, but I keep pushing. I wonder if Will would be proud or horrified that I’m pushing myself so hard. I haul myself around so I can put my shoulders against the rock, even though that means my neck leans forward at an uncomfortable angle. My neck isn’t what I’m worried about.

I fight with my bootlaces. They’re swollen from the water and they’ve worked themselves into tight knots. I rip a fingernail before they finally ease up enough to get my boots off my feet. I strip my socks. Then the jeans and underwear, and now I’m naked from the waist down and still freaking cold.

Getting new clothes on isn’t quite as bad as getting the old clothes off. I use an extra pair of underwear to dry my legs off first. I figure no one’s going to complain if I have to wear the same pair two days in a row out here, and better to use wet underwear I don’t need than a wet shirt I do.

I put it with the rest of the wet clothes and wriggle into my other pair of jeans. Only two pairs. I have to get the other pair dry somehow. I need fire. It keeps coming back to that.

I decide to wait. See how I’m feeling in a couple of hours. The pill should last four, and maybe my muscles will loosen up a bit. Maybe I can gather a little bit of wood.

In the meantime I sit with my back to the rock and try to come up with a plan.

IT’S GOING TO be much, much harder to survive because I’m injured, but sitting here with the drugs kicking through my system and my stomach cramping over my tiny breakfast, I realize that it’s helped me, too. Because I was injured, I met Will. And because I met Will, I know Will’s Important True Things, which was a silly name for what were really just ways of getting me to think right, so that I’d be able to get better.

One of Will’s Important True Things is that you should always know the goal. I have two goals, always: to survive, and to get rescued.

Another of the Important True Things is that you should always have a plan, even if it is only one small thing that you will do first while you come up with a plan. You should always be doing something, even if it’s thinking, even if it’s relaxing (Will says knowing when to rest is as important as knowing when to work).

You have to learn to assume that you will fail and assume that you will succeed at the same time. This is the only way to stay smart and careful and stay moving and motivated. You cannot give up and you cannot let up.

I have a third goal, too, I realize. I tell myself I shouldn’t. I try not to think about it, because thinking about it means thinking about that day. About what happened.