Page 33 of A Summer to Save Us

I must have fallen asleep because I’m on the ground, and River has covered me with a change of clothes and the sleeping bag. He’s standing by the river with his feet in the water. He notices I’m awake, flashes me a smile, but immediately turns away again.

He seems lost in thought and far away, as if he is barricading himself behind walls that are as insurmountable as my silence.

I give him a look, but he avoids me. Later, he gives me a look and I avoid it.

The whole day is crazy. We slackline in silence, eat in silence, and hardly look at each other, yet our eyes meet many times.

The atmosphere is charged like before a thunderstorm.

The air crackles like crushed tissue paper, the slackline hums like someone running a finger across a glass, and the trees rustle as if they are whispering secrets about us.

Again and again, with these looks, this avoidance, and my silent questions: Who are you?

Why don’t you want to fall in love with me?

Why are you running away from your friends?

At some point, after River has dismantled the slackline and put the materials away, he comes up to me and kisses me.

However, it feels like a desperate kiss.

He presses me hard against him, almost as if he has to hold me by force.

My lungs and chest burn as I breathe because I no longer understand him, just that he definitely needs help.

“We can’t stay here anymore,” he says, out of breath, like the intensity of the kiss exhausted him.

“I think the others are waiting near the tent, but they’ll continue searching tomorrow, especially when they realize we’re not coming back.

” He shoulders his backpack, and despite the lack of light, I notice the circles under his eyes.

He looks ashen beneath his tan, and even his dark blue eyes, which are usually so clear, look like murky pools. “Let’s find a motel, okay?”

I merely nod. I hope his cell phone starts working soon. I need to ask him so many things, but the pad and pen are in the tent, which we can’t go back to.

The rest of the day, we wander along the river, wading through low water and swampy pools. A dense canopy hangs over everything, allowing only sparse rays of light to penetrate the network of trees, bushes, and waterways.

River is so exhausted he can barely stand on his feet, and at some point, I take the backpack from him. Humidity hangs in the air, unable to escape the dense foliage. I’m sweating with exertion, and the straps of the heavy backpack are chafing despite a T-shirt on my shoulders.

At least I don’t have to wear long sleeves in front of River anymore.

Toward evening, River says what I’ve been thinking all along. “We’re lost, Tucks. You’ll have to put up with me a little longer.” He tries to grin, but it slips away. His eyes are devoid of light.

I want to tell him that I never intended to leave him, but I just shake my head, hoping my disapproving look tells him what I’m thinking.

We build a place to sleep under the hanging branches of a weeping willow with a change of clothes and a sleeping bag, and when it gets dark, we fall asleep cuddled together.

Whatever stands between us during the day dissolves at night as if the night is neutral ground.

River may also be too exhausted to fight back.

The next morning, I wake up before River again. Even in his sleep, he doesn’t look relaxed.

Maybe he doesn’t have all the resources to calm down?

Alcohol, for example. Luckily, he still had cigarettes in his backpack.

I search the luggage for something to drink and notice the water bottles are empty, so I run to the river and fill them up, even though I don’t know what strains of bacteria have settled here.

When River wakes up, he appears disoriented. I don’t understand the change that’s going on within him, and he obviously doesn’t want to talk about it.

We wander the wilderness for another day when lights suddenly appear in the evening beyond a grassy slope.

Relief floods me because, if I’m honest, River’s condition is scaring me more and more.

His silence confuses me, as he used to talk non-stop.

You are sick . I’m quite sure there’s something seriously wrong with him.

The lights belong to a small town called Woods Crossing.

We find a shabby motel on the outskirts of town, which immediately reminds me of the horror film Psycho .

Flat wooden huts are lined up seamlessly, sharing walls like semi-detached houses—only here, they appear as thin as sheets of plywood.

The wooden siding needs to be sanded and oiled; a few tiles have fallen from the roof, and no one has picked up the pieces.

It’s a desolate, lonely place, a good distance from the first set of houses, and it suits River’s condition perfectly.

As he fills out the forms for the man behind the reception desk, I stay in the background and look with feigned interest at the yellowed and dried flower pictures that look like they’re from the fifties.

I don’t know if my dad has called the police yet, but if he has, the man behind the counter shouldn’t necessarily see me from the front.

However, he doesn’t seem like he’s interested in anything other than River’s cash, which he left on the counter to fill out the registration form. I stealthily peek over at them.

The man’s nose is red-veined and dripping. The sleeves of his lumberjack shirt are rolled up, revealing two hairy forearms. “You have to pay in advance,” he mutters indistinctly.

“No problem.” River takes the wad of money and flips a few fifty-dollar bills into the motel owner’s hand. “We’re staying four nights, at least. Do you have a pad and a pen?”

The man counts the money again, then slips into a back room and comes back with a skeleton key. “Pad and pen cost extra. Fifteen dollars.”

River pays without saying anything, and the red-nosed man gives him a tiny pencil and a used pad. “Don’t give me any trouble,” he says, wiping his nose with his forearm, but he looks like he doesn’t care about anything.

River nods laboriously. When we enter the room, he immediately collapses onto the creaking double bed and falls asleep.

I glance around uncomfortably. The room is larger than the one in the Badlands, but it’s dirty and rundown.

There’s a thick layer of dust on the table, the small, orangey carpet on the tiled floor is worn and covered in countless stains, and there’s a fissure in the windowpane.

The glass isn’t shattered, but it doesn’t look like it would survive a tornado.

Not knowing what to do, I sit on the other side of the bed. Tired, I push my sweaty hair out of my face. River surely just needs to catch up on the sleep he’s been missing.

I sit and stare into space for a while before I take off the Handana and inspect my hand. The wounds still look bad from the exercises on the slackline, but not quite as bad as back at Kensington. I shake my head. My old school seems light years away.

I peel off my clothes and go into the bathroom, leaving the moldy shower curtain open simply because Norman Bates and the knife are on my mind. I smell terrible, like sweat and wilderness.

I slowly turn the rusty tap and wait until the icy, copper-colored water is clear and at the right temperature, then I stand right under the thin stream. The warmth tingles on my scalp.

I squeeze the last bit of shower gel out of the dispenser with both hands and lather myself from head to toe.

I used to hate showering, but now it feels wonderful.

At first, I thought it was just because I hadn’t been able to wash myself with soap for a while, but it’s something else. The bruises on my body hurt less.

I wrap myself in a scratchy towel and search the backpack for clothes. I find a huge black sweater of River’s and a pair of jeans that are way too big. I slip them on, use a scarf as a belt so the waist doesn’t slide down with every step, and roll the hem up a few times.

Exhausted from wandering through the forest, I lie down on the bed next to River and stare up.

Moonlight shines through the cracked window, painting a circle on the ceiling.

Did Dad call the police because I haven’t reported in for two days in a row?

What would the police do if it was clear that I ran away?

Plus, I’m seventeen, not eight. I have no idea what they’d do in such a case, but it’s certainly different than when a child disappears overnight.

They certainly wouldn’t be searching for me here in Woods Crossing.

This is a cow town, and the motel owner didn’t seem like someone who would care about his guests’ needs as long as he could drink in peace. No, I’m safe here.

Sunlight awakens me. I blink tiredly and immediately notice that River is still asleep.

Now, this is truly strange. He said he never, or only rarely, sleeps. I sit up and lick my dry lips. I have a bad taste in my mouth and urgently need to brush my teeth. Maybe River has a toothbrush somewhere in his backpack.

Clumsily, I rummage around but can’t find anything. Just a crinkly package he usually keeps in his pocket. Should I check what it is?

“Don’t worry. That’s not a head that I secretly pulverized and bagged,” River growls, turning back to the other side.

So, he is awake, after all.

I think for a moment. If it’s drugs, I should know so I can better assess River. I take a deep breath and pull out the crackling thing.

“Direct hit,” River murmurs dully.

I want to laugh, but I can’t. I stare at the square package in shock. It’s a condom.

“I like having sex. I just want to be prepared.”