Page 47

I find the rifles in the collapsed heap of the west wall. The ammunition burst in the heat of the fire, and even the few rounds that are still whole are blackened. I don’t trust them one bit.

At least I can see what went wrong. There’s a scrap of a box left unburned. It’s a different color, and it has.223 stamped on it. I must have the rifle that takes.223 ammo. And the other rifles are ruined, which means the ammo I have is useless.

I take the rifles anyway. I don’t know what use they’ll have, but the barrels are straight and metal, and if nothing else I can use them to prop something up.

Movement at the far side of the clearing draws my eye. Something flaps and flutters against the ground. I make my way over, leaving my pile of scorched metal by the cabin.

The tarp that covered the woodpile is trapped against the roots of a tree, fluttering in the wind. It must have ripped free somehow. It’s still in one piece, and only one edge is a little scorched, the plastic fibers melted.

I fold it up, grinning. It’s big, and it’s waterproof. Stay dry, stay warm. Stay warm, stay alive.

I almost miss the rumble. It’s not the first plane to come by since Dad died, but every time I taste the same sour fear in the back of my mouth. Is it them? Raph and Daniel and the pilot, coming back for what they left? Have they found out I’m here? What if they’re coming back to kill me?

I scramble back to where I left my finds. I spread the tarp enough to load them all on, then bundle everything up and make for the trees as fast as I can. I need to get out of sight before the plane gets close.

At the tree line I burrow deep among the trees, crouching out of sight. Probably it’s nothing to do with me, just like the two that have gone by in the distance, never even coming in clear view.

Or maybe, traitorous hope suggests, it’s rescue.

No one but Griff knows I’m out here. But maybe he’s come back. Maybe he’s sent someone to check on me.

I wait.

The plane comes closer. Closer. Then descending, and my breath catches in my throat. It turns and comes down on the surface of the lake, a smooth landing that sends ducks scattering.

It isn’t Griff’s yellow plane. It isn’t Raph’s red plane, either. This one is a dingy green, and there’s only a single man in it. He hops down onto the float and stares at the burned cabin.

“Helloooo,” he calls, hands cupped over his mouth.

Should I answer? I bite my lip.

“Helloooo,” he calls again.

He waits, looks around. He climbs back into the cockpit and I think he might leave, but he seems to just be thinking, because he gets back out and comes to shore. He can’t be with Raph, I think. If he is with Raph, he’d know Dad is dead.

But that doesn’t mean he’s a good person. I creep closer to watch as he walks up the beach, and my breath catches in my throat. He’s armed. He has a gun just like Daniel’s and Raph’s, in a holster at his side. He comes up and stares at the burnt cabins, and he spits on the ground like Raph did.

He walks around all three wrecks. Cabin, shed, outhouse.

The notebook sits just inside what used to be the doorway of the cabin. If he finds it, he’ll know I’m here. He’ll know everything.

Isn’t that what I wanted?

He crouches and picks up a handful of ash and lets it scatter. Then he stands, takes off his hat, rubs his scalp. Shoves the hat back on again.

He walks back to the water with a purposeful stride.

Call out to him, I think. Call out. Call out.

But my throat is squeezed shut.

He might shoot me.

The cold might kill me.

He might bury me in a grave like my father’s.

I might starve to death.