The host coughs a look-at-me cough. “Today promises to be even more challenging than yesterday,” he says again. “Come with me.”
As they walk, Air Force says to Black Doctor, “We never got a reward for finding that guy yesterday.”
“You’re right,” says Black Doctor. “That’s strange.”
Zoo overhears and thinks, Your reward was not having to pull a wallet from a blood-soaked pocket. Not having to watch the man jump. Tracker walks beside her, thinking about the vast inappropriateness of receiving rewards for farce.
The group reaches the small clearing atop yesterday’s cliff, where the Expert stands in the middle of ten color-coded stations wearing the same flannel shirt he wore in his first appearance. He greets the contestants with a gruff nod. The host steps forward to stand with him and says, “Until now, you’ve had modern means at your disposal for starting fires. Now, if you want fire, you will have to learn to make it the way it was made before matches, before”—he looks pointedly at Zoo—“fire starters. You’ll have to use a bow drill.”
“I’m here to show you the technique,” says the Expert. “Gather ’round and watch closely.” He kneels and picks up the pieces of his bow-drill kit: a curved wooden bow strung with deer tendon, a thin wooden baseboard, a thumb-thick spindle of harder wood, a palm-sized rock, and a tinder bundle made from twisted-together dried grass and threads of inner bark. Within seconds he has the spindle secure in the bowstring and pressed to the baseboard, which he braces against the ground with his foot. The socket rock has disappeared into his palm, which he rests atop the spindle. Bracing his spindle hand, the Expert begins to run the bow horizontal to the ground. The spindle catches, then spins. The Expert bows faster. A thin trail of smoke wafts upward. To the uninitiated: magic. Waitress gasps. Even Tracker is impressed—he couldn’t do it better himself.
The Expert pulls the spindle from the baseboard, revealing a charred indent lined with soft black dust. He cuts a pie wedge into the charred hole with his knife. “The objective here is to make a coal,” he says. He places a piece of bark under the baseboard, reassembles the kit, and bows again. Smoke blooms and he keeps bowing. The smoke thickens. The Expert removes the spindle to reveal a tiny glowing coal, which he tips into the tinder bundle. He cups the bundle in his hands and blows into its center. A speck of warm light expands into flickering orange. With another breath, flames erupt.
The Expert angles the flames away from his face. “You know the rest,” he says. He drops the bundle and stomps it out. “Good luck.”
The host steps up. “First one to ignite their tinder bundle wins,” he says. “Go!”
The contestants head toward their respective stations—except for Exorcist, who eschews his lime green for Tracker’s red, sprinting. He snatches the red-marked baseboard and flings it over the cliff. “Now the rest of us—”
Air Force grabs Exorcist’s arm and cranks it up behind his back. Exorcist yelps.
“What the fuck?” says Air Force.
“Just leveling the field, friend,” says Exorcist, squirming to relieve the pressure.
Tracker walks to the edge of the cliff and peers down. He’s regretting not running to his station. He didn’t think he had to hurry to win this Challenge.
Black Doctor touches Air Force’s arm. “Hey, easy,” he says.
Air Force tenses, then relaxes. “Sorry,” he says. He lets go of Exorcist’s arm.
Exorcist punches him in the stomach.
Air Force recoils, more surprised than hurt.
“Wasn’t your face!” says Exorcist. “Wasn’t your genitals!” He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a squirrel tail, throws it at Air Force. It flutters down to land near his feet. “Let’s see your defensive fetal!” he shouts. Another squirrel tail, this one hits Air Force in the knee. Air Force stares at Exorcist, bewildered.
Black Doctor steps between them. “Hey, hey, hey,” he says. A squirrel tail thwaps him in the chest.
Tracker is walking away from the group; he will make this right on his own.
Exorcist takes off his backpack. Crouching, he pulls out another handful of squirrel tails.
Black Doctor looks at the host for help.
“I’m sure you can settle this on your own,” says the host.
A tail whizzes by Black Doctor’s ear.
“Why don’t you just take his chunk-of-wood thing?” Biology calls to Tracker from her orange station.
Tracker has collected a piece of deadwood. He takes out his knife.
“He’s carving a new one!” cries Exorcist. He flings a tail toward Tracker; it falls about twenty feet short.
“Do you smell smoke?” asks Air Force. Everyone involved in the conflict turns to find Engineer bowing, a thick stream of smoke curling up from his maroon-and-brown-striped baseboard. Engineer is a natural, and far ahead of the others who decided to engage in the Challenge instead of Exorcist’s drama. Zoo hasn’t even gotten her baby-blue spindle to turn yet; it keeps popping out of the bowstring. Waitress is trying to get her spindle to stand without winding it into the string. Biology can’t get hers to turn. Banker’s bowing, but instead of smoke his kit produces a high-pitched squeak.
Exorcist springs toward his lime-green kit, and Air Force turns to his navy-blue one. Black Doctor steps toward his mustard-yellow station; his boot strikes a small rock at the wrong angle. He falls, landing heavily on his right hand. He hears the pop of a ligament tearing. He pushes to his knees, holding his wrist tight to his body. The wrist is already swelling, pooling blood pushing angrily at the skin.
Air Force is at his side. “Doc? You okay?” he asks.
“Need a medic?” asks the host.
“I’m fine,” Black Doctor assures his friend, but then he meets the host’s eyes and nods. “Medic, please.” An intern ushers him away. Air Force watches him dissolve into the tree line, then reluctantly returns to his station. He knows he’s lost too much time to have a chance of winning this Challenge.
Engineer finishes carving his notch and winds his spindle back into the bow. Tracker’s new baseboard is almost finished, but it’s too late; by the time he starts bowing, Engineer has his coal. A moment of tension as Engineer tips the coal into his tinder bundle and blows, but the bundle ignites and the host cries, “We have a winner!”
Engineer places his flaming tinder bundle gingerly onto the dirt. He’s smiling, shy but proud. “Do I have to put it out?” he asks.
Tracker drops his kit and stalks up to Exorcist.
Exorcist is sitting cross-legged with his spindle in one hand and his bow in the other. “Hey, so I—” he starts.
Tracker grabs him by his jacket and hauls him to his feet. Exorcist’s spindle and bow clatter to the ground.
“You think you’re the scary one,” Tracker says. His face is inches from Exorcist’s, his eyes as narrow as Exorcist’s are wide. His voice is cold, even. “But you’re wrong. One more stunt like that and I’ll make sure you envy those squirrels whose hides you’re defiling. Understood?”
“Holy shit,” whispers Waitress, her face flipping between shock and glee as Exorcist nods rapidly and endlessly. Everyone is watching. The host steps forward, uncertain; Tracker has been so steady, he never expected true confrontation. Neither did Exorcist, not even when it was walking straight at him. The only one who understands that this isn’t about Exorcist is Zoo. She wants to take Tracker by the arm, take him away, tell him it’s okay, it’s just a game. Remind him of why he’s here. But she fears what it might look like if she steps forward, what it might mean—and she doesn’t.
Tracker lets go of Exorcist, maintaining his still stance and iron stare until Exorcist breaks and stumbles back a step. As Exorcist begins sputtering a quiet apology, Tracker turns away and walks back to his station. Awed silence descends on the clearing.