Page 7

SEVEN

EMILY

My dad, Roger Edwards Jr., was born a daredevil. At least that’s what my grandma Nora used to say, and she had it on good authority, considering she was there when it happened. She went into labor three weeks early, while she was watching an episode of Gunsmoke in her living room, and he was born before she could even make it to the phone to call my grandpa for help. By age six, he was legendary in their small town for being the only kid brave enough to climb all the way to the top of the sycamore tree that overlooked the park, a feat that earned him bragging rights on the playground and more than a few expensive trips to the emergency room.

By eight, he had perfected the art of backflipping off the tire swing and onto his skateboard, a nailbiter of a trick that wowed his peers but resulted in a broken arm. And by high school, when other kids his age were still deciding who to ask to homecoming, he’d figured out his entire life plan: he was going to become a journalist, the kind that traveled every inch of the globe in search of a good story and traipsed through tropical jungles to report on the vanishing habitats of endangered tree frogs. When he fell in love with my mom, a raven-haired schoolteacher with matching dimples and a great laugh who wanted to settle down and get married, they reached a happy compromise: Dad could live out his globetrotting dreams, as long as he was home for three-fourths of the year, and he could never be gone for more than three weeks at a time.

It worked well for a while, even when Brooke came along and I soon followed. Dad worked as a global correspondent for a regional press syndicate, and I remember him walking in our front door after short trips, his suitcase heavy with trinkets and treasures from the places he traveled. He would tell us exciting stories from his adventures, like how he was chased by a wild monkey in Ecuador and how he met a shaman in Vietnam who used mushrooms to navigate between the spirit world and this one. In the evenings, I would cuddle up in bed with a Junie B. Jones book and a flashlight, feeling snug and safe as the sound of my parents’ laughter floated down the hallway.

And then, like all stories worth telling, there was a plot twist. Mom got sick, fast, and the laughter stopped, replaced by the relentless beeping of an IV pump and the hushed voices of my grandparents whispering in the living room. And when she died, leaving behind a husband and two little girls and a beagle named Rascal who still wagged his tail and waited by the door every night at the time Mom would usually get home from work, Dad knew his adventures were over. He quit his job and got a new one as editor of The Lakewood Gazette , the small-town paper that covered hot topics like the fiercely competitive school board election and the annual Halloween pumpkin drop. He devoted himself to raising Brooke and me, trading transatlantic flights for bike rides around the block, and interviews with global leaders for painfully detailed explanations of why Brian Stiller was the sexiest boy Lakewood Intermediate School had ever seen. He learned about periods and Sillybandz and fishtail braids, and he fulfilled his need for adrenaline with Indiana Jones rewatches and navigating the treacherous minefield of being a girl dad. He’d have his chance at adventure later, when Mom’s medical bills were paid off and Brooke and I were grown and he found someone to take the reins at the paper.

Except, of course, his chance never came. Which is why, instead of taking the father-daughter hiking trip Dad dreamed of, I’m shuffling miserably along behind Ryder, thick mud squelching underneath my boots as we trudge through the dense forest. And while Dad would have found Ryder downright hilarious, I’m growing increasingly concerned about the navigational abilities of the man I hired. For one thing, he seemed completely shocked by the sudden thunderstorm that rattled my teeth and soaked me to the bone. Granted, it surprised me, too, despite Killface’s warning—after all, the sky was clear—but I’m not an expert outdoorsman who makes her living on the trail. I can’t be expected to know these things, which is why I hired a guide.

But a surprise storm is small potatoes compared to the fact that we’ve been searching for our campsite for almost two hours, and my patience is running thin.

“Are you sure we’re going the right way?” I ask, watching as Ryder glances from the map in his left hand to the compass in his right like he’s never used them before in his life.

“Of course we’re going the right way,” he says, frowning at the map and then scanning the stretch of trail behind us. “I think.”

“You think ?” I ask, my voice reaching a pitch so high it squeaks. “What do you mean, you think? This is your area of expertise, right?”

“Well, it’s not not my area of expertise,” he says, which does absolutely nothing to help the panic creeping into my chest. He scratches the back of his head and shakes the compass like it’s a Magic 8 Ball. “I think there’s something wrong with this compass. Oh wait, never mind. I was holding it upside down.”

It takes all my restraint not to scream. Not only am I exhausted from a long day of travel and hiking, I’m also wet, cold, and paranoid that Killface is going to pop out from behind a tree and murder us. I haven’t seen a single thing I could interpret as some kind of meaningful sign from Dad, and to add to the fun, I’m growing increasingly worried that the tour guide I shelled out a decent chunk of money for—the one whose agency promised to bring me all the adventure with none of the hassle —had last-minute availability for a reason. Because I’m feeling very, very hassled.

“No, there’s definitely something wrong with the compass,” Ryder says, shaking it again. “I can’t get the pointy thing to move.”

“The pointy thing ?!” I repeat. “Do you mean the orienteering arrow?”

“Um, I think so?” he says, his voice bearing not a single hint of confidence. He holds the compass up toward me. “Do you know how to use it?”

“Do you not?” I ask, my frustration bubbling over. “Ryder, answer me yes or no: are we lost?”

He stares at the map again, which is a soupy, illegible mess of wet ink.

“I mean,” he says slowly, “?‘lost’ is a relative term, you know? ’Cause if you think about it, you can know exactly where you are and still feel lost, and you can be lost but still feel good about where you are. Kind of like how you can feel all alone in a crowded room, or how you can be alone but not lonely, or—”

“Ryder,” I say, closing my eyes and praying for patience, “please stop rambling.”

He sighs and runs a hand through his hair, and it’s deeply unfair that someone can be so infuriating and also so completely jacked. “Look, the good news is that we aren’t lost. I figured out exactly where we are.”

“Okay,” I say warily, wondering why he still looks uneasy. “And is there bad news?”

“Uh, yeah. Sort of.” He grimaces. “The bad news is that where we are is five miles away from where we want to be.”

I can practically feel smoke coming out of my ears.

“How is that sort of bad news?” I ask. “That’s terrible news, Ryder! How in the hell are we five miles from the campsite? It was only supposed to be a three-mile hike from Washington Creek!”

“Right, and it would have been,” he mumbles, looking everywhere but at me. “Except we accidentally went a little too easty-east and not enough northy-north.”

“ We didn’t do anything,” I hiss, my normal levels of patience severely deflated by the fact that I’ve gone more than twelve hours without access to WiFi and caffeine. “ You went the wrong way. I just followed you!”

“I know.” Ryder’s voice is quiet. “I’m sorry. I’m just…very off my game right now.”

“Okay, well,” I say, forcing myself to speak at a normal volume, “how do you plan to get back on your game? And why are you relying on that wet map and a compass? Why aren’t you navigating with one of those fancy satellite GPS things?”

His answer is so hushed I have to strain to hear it. “Because I don’t have one.”

“Huh?” I ask, puzzled. “But it’s listed on your agency’s website as a provided amenity. Why are you not providing that amenity, Ryder?”

He winces. “The thing is, I did have one. And I made sure to store it safely in my day pack. I was super careful! Unfortunately, I forgot my day pack in the motel room, which is about forty miles that way.” He points left, then frowns and points right instead. “Or maybe that way. Anyway, I’m not exactly sure which way the GPS is, but I know it’s not here.”

“Unfortunately, you forgot your day pack,” I repeat, stunned. That sounds to me like the exact opposite of being super careful. “How, pray tell, does that happen?”

He shakes his head. “It’s a long story involving The Sandlot and a case of beer.”

“ The Sandlot ?” I ask, trying extremely hard to follow. “The children’s baseball movie with the scary dog?”

“Oh, Hercules isn’t actually scary,” Ryder says breezily. “He’s actually a very good boy who—” He pauses. “Never mind. That’s not super important right now.”

I take a deep breath to collect my thoughts. “Okay, so, to recap: we’re five miles from the correct route, we don’t have the one thing that could help us in the event of a true emergency, and Hercules is a very good boy. Did I miss anything?”

“Uh, yeah,” Ryder says, looking like he wishes a tree would blow over and put him out of his misery. “The personal locator beacon was also in my day pack. So I forgot the two things that could help us in the event of a true emergency. To be, you know, precise.”

I want to rip his head off verbally, but instead I take a long inhale and remind myself that he didn’t mean to forget the pricey, life-saving equipment our contract promised he would bring. Yelling at him won’t help anything.

“Okay,” I say, tugging on the straps of my backpack. “So we need a new plan. We don’t have much daylight left, so maybe we should just set up camp somewhere around here.” I glance toward the surrounding forest, frightened that a wolf or a Killface is lurking in the shadows. “Tomorrow, we’ll get back to our planned route. We don’t have the GPS, and our map is pretty ruined, but none of this is a huge deal, right? I’m sure you’ve guided tons of trips where things go a little haywire.”

“Well,” Ryder says, avoiding my gaze in a way that does not inspire confidence, “not exactly.”

“Well, I’m sure you can find your way using the stars, right?” I ask, my desperation growing. “I’m sure you figure out directions all the time by looking at the Big Dipper or Cassiopeia or whatever, right? Or you lick your finger and hold it up to the wind like people do in movies? Just like you did earlier?”

“Sorry, what’s Cassiopeia?” Ryder asks, massaging the back of his neck. “Is it an app? Because there’s no cell service here, so we can’t—”

“Oh my God, Fleet, I know there’s no cell service here!” I seethe, finally losing my patience. “What I don’t know is why my tour guide, who is supposed to be an expert in all things outdoorsy, isn’t familiar with basic constellations! Or why you showed up so late to the marina that you almost missed the boat. Or why you didn’t know that a storm was coming, or that glow-in-the-dark toilet paper is a must-have on the trail—”

“Nobody needs glow-in-the-dark toilet paper, Edwards!”

“I do, too, need it! And I need an explanation for all the stuff I just mentioned.” I pause to catch my breath, watching as Ryder’s jaw tightens. “What’s going on?”

He exhales, letting out a pfft of air that can’t mean anything good. “I have an explanation, but you’re not going to like it. The thing is…” He pauses, really amping up the suspense as well as my cortisol levels. “I’m not what some might call an ‘experienced’ tour guide.”

I gape at him. “Why are you making air quotes around ‘experienced’? Exactly how many tours have you led?”

“Uh, one,” he says in a whisper, his gaze fixed on the ground in front of him. “Including this one.”

I swear I can actually hear the record scratch that happens inside my brain.

“One tour?” I ask, keeping a cool head be damned. “ This tour? Are you telling me that I am your first and only client?”

“In a technical sense, yes, that would be correct. And also in every other sense.”

“How?” I ask, my mind imploding. “There are pictures of you on your agency’s website! Pictures of you hiking and leading some kind of stargazing class and looking at a compass like it’s not an alien object. This doesn’t make any sense.” My breath catches. “Oh my God, this is just like the beginning of Bloodsport .”

“What’s Bloodsport ?”

“It’s the podcast about—never mind, it doesn’t matter! What matters is that I’m stuck in the wilderness with no map and no clue who the man in front of me is.” I put one hand on my pack, ready to grab my bear spray. “You need to make this make sense.”

He puts his hands up as if my desire to bear-spray him in the eyeballs is written all over my face.

“Okay, let me explain,” Ryder says. “I do work for Fleet Outdoor Adventures. I mean, I did. I guess I still do, technically, but the agency kind of fell apart a while back.”

“Fell apart?” I repeat, my head swimming.

“It’s a long story. But to make it simple, I was the marketing and outreach guy. I wasn’t out in the field.”

“But the pictures,” I say, my heart pounding.

“The pictures are photo ops,” he explains. “I was at the stargazing class, but I was in charge of s’more supplies. The picture of me looking at the compass was for our Instagram page. And I have hiked before, but it was always with a group, and I was never in charge. I thought that would be enough experience to get me through this gig, but clearly it isn’t.”

It takes me a full five seconds to process what he’s saying before I speak.

“So you’re telling me,” I say quietly, “that I’m lost in the wilderness, on a remote island with no Wi-Fi and no way to call for help, with the camping equivalent of a water boy ?”

Ryder flinches. “I mean, that’s kind of a hurtful way to put it, but yes. That’s correct.”

I bury my face in my hands. “But why? I don’t understand. Fleet Outdoor Adventures has excellent reviews. Why would they send somebody with no on-the-ground experience? Were all the other tour guides booked?”

“Uh, well, as I mentioned, the agency kind of fell apart,” he says. “As in, the other tour guides all left about a year ago. The ones who were still alive, anyway.”

My blood curdles. “The ones who were still alive ? Did you, like, murder some of them?”

“What? No. Of course not.” Ryder looks genuinely hurt by my question, and I almost feel bad for asking it before I remember that that’s exactly what a real murderer would want.

“Look,” he says, shoving the map into his pocket. “The agency was started and run by my brother, Caleb. He brought me along for the ride, but the business was his baby. He was in charge of the tour guides. He knew the ins and outs of every trail and probably could have led you across Isle Royale with his eyes closed.”

“Okay,” I say, not understanding what any of this information has to do with our current predicament. “So why isn’t he here with me?”

Ryder flinches as if I’ve struck him. “Because he’s dead, Emily. He died almost two years ago.”

His words are like a bucket of ice water dumped over my simmering anger. “Ryder,” I say, “I—”

“I tried to keep the agency running without him, but it crumbled last year,” Ryder explains. “Because it can’t exist without him, and frankly, I don’t know how to, either.” His voice is rough, and his eyes shine bright with the threat of tears, and something about watching this devil-may-care man care so deeply about something makes me want to cry, too.

“I took this gig because I needed the money,” Ryder adds. He clears his throat and looks at me straight on. “I know it doesn’t matter, but I really thought I could manage this. I’m sorry I wasn’t up-front about my lack of qualifications. I’m sorry for jumping onto the boat, and for deceiving you. I’ll figure out how to get you safely back to Windigo, and then I’ll give you a full refund. And I will never, ever, do something like this again.”

I watch as he wipes his eyes quickly with his sleeve, trying to pass it off as a cough. I don’t know what to say to everything he just dumped on me, so I say the first thing that comes to mind.

“I’m so sorry, Ryder,” I say quietly, releasing my grip on my pack. “I’m so sorry for the loss of your brother.”

He glances at me in surprise, as if he’d been expecting me to tear him a new one. “Thank you, Emily.”

And as he squints at the map again, then holds the compass up to his mouth and blows on it like it’s a malfunctioning Nintendo cartridge, I know exactly what I should do. I should find a way to get back to Windigo ASAP and hop on the first ferry back to Grand Portage, then blast Fleet Outdoor Adventures’ Yelp page with the most scathing review ever written. I should accept the fact that I have no business trying to finish Dad’s bucket list, because he might have been born a daredevil, but I was born an overly anxious scaredy-cat who considers going grocery shopping without a list to be a grand adventure.

I should, but I won’t. Because there’s a brokenness in Ryder that I recognize, a desperate longing for someone who isn’t here that mirrors the anguish I feel every time I think about Dad. And even though I’m furious that a completely unqualified guy from the marketing department had such an inflated sense of his own abilities that he led both of us astray in the dangerous wilderness, I can’t just give up. I made a promise to Dad, and I intend to keep it.

“You were wrong to lie to me, but we can’t just go back to Windigo,” I tell him. “It’s not that easy. Because I have a secret, too.”