I take a deep breath, trying to figure out what to say or do. As soon as I open my mouth, she spins around and tears through the trees, back onto the narrow hiking path.
I don’t follow her. I’m still too shocked. Did I really see what I saw? Is she hiding here, too? I mean, at least I’m prepared. Sort of. I’ve got a backpack full of food and a plan for shelter all winter. That girl probably has no clothes, no food—I mean, she looks like she doesn’t even know how to make a sandwich.
Great.
What if she calls the police? There’s supposedly a pay phone somewhere on the other end of the island that takes credit cards. Only, she looks like she wouldn’t have a credit card.
I start heading back to my camp, not knowing what else to do. My brain feels all unsettled. The island is like two hundred square miles. I’ll probably never see her again. I inhale cool air and pause. Right now, anyone on this island doesn’t want to be found, or else has a death wish. If it’s the first, then we have no problem. If it’s the second, I might be in trouble. I rub my forehead as a headache sprouts in my temples.
There’s no room in my brain to worry about one more thing.
Chapter Four
ANDA
I run all the way home, clunking down the narrow trail in my ill-fitting boots. In my head, I can still see the boy staring at me, his mouth readying to form a word. I imagine what it would have been.
Hello.
Why.
Who.
Go.
But the answer never materialized, because I couldn’t stand inside my skin and wait for it.
This cannot be happening.
I’m not alone on the island, and the ground below my feet is off-kilter. There was a constant in the equation before. And now the equation has changed, not to my liking.
Normally, in autumn, a seed of wind will come toward the lake. The lake water, warmed from a summer full of solar energy, nourishes it from below. And I can coax it into something absolutely savage, far bigger than it intended to be. It is chaos that is orchestrated, nurtured, groomed. It is what I do.
But he’s brought an altogether different element of chaos, and it confuses me utterly.
Then send him away.
Her order is sound advice, but it’s a distasteful command. And I wish to stay here, to hide, to become a crack in the weathered bones of the cottage itself. I want to run away from him, into forgetfulness.
Anda. Send the boy away.
I nod meekly.
The warm air of the cottage is thick syrup in my lungs and is anything but soothing. Get out, get out, it seems to hiss. I’m not welcome home. It knows there is still something I must do. I leave and pause outside the cottage, sniffing the air. Yew and bearberry are waxy and green nearby, parading their health. The loamy humus brings a symphony of scents demanding attention, but I ignore it all. Now is not the time for me to tune the balances of the island. Instead, I let the pressure in the air infect my lungs. My eyes close and I speak out loud.
“Southwest winds ten to fifteen knots. Cloudy with a ninety percent chance of rain after midnight.”
Call it a prayer or a weather forecast, but it works to keep me calm. I force myself to think, to use sensibility, not sense. An uncomfortable shift for me. It’s this boy’s entire fault, making me think outside of myself.
The Washington Creek campgrounds, near Windigo. That is where he must be. I turn around to see the cottage door flapping a complaint in the light wind. It urges me on, knowing I would rather sink into the depths of the lake and forget everything. I’m terrified of letting that boy see me again. No one ever sees me.
November is coming. Get rid of him.
Or I will.
The cottage door slams shut like a thunderclap, and I run.
Chapter Five
HECTOR
Forget the headache. Forget the girl.
I need to focus on living and surviving. I can handle this.
It’s about a two-mile hike back to where I hid my stuff. Yesterday after I’d disembarked, I’d listened to the required boring lecture on camping before quietly disappearing down the nearest trail. The campgrounds were already deserted, but I couldn’t take the chance of being found inside one of the camping shelters. I’d found a dry, hidden ring of evergreen trees and sat there hugging my bag, twitching every time I heard a twig snap. It was only a few hours before I was starving. There was no way a fire would be a good idea, so I rummaged through my supplies before taking out one precious bag of trail mix.
God, it had been cold. When you’re hiding and not moving, your heat gets sucked away so easily. After the sunset, I’d curled up in my sleeping bag. Having been on constant alert since I ran away, my brain was fogged, begging for rest. I didn’t want to waste flashlight batteries, and it’s not like I had anything else to do. I hadn’t brought any books, and island pamphlets were shit for company. Which left me thinking. And I didn’t like what I was thinking about. So I slept.
Or at least I’d tried. I shivered all night long, because the wind forced its way into my sleeping bag. Rocks and sticks dug into my side, and my folded hands made for a crappy pillow. Now here I am. I’m dirty. I probably smell like a locker room drain. And my left shoulder aches from sleeping on the ground, but I’m alive, I think, as I walk back to camp. It’s a damn long walk, but I have all winter. I’m in no rush.
But I’m not alone.
The memory of that girl in her parka and nightgown won’t leave me. Worry seeps into my bones, but I can’t let it stop me. In the meantime, I’m starving. Again. Maybe today I should start fishing, since the food I packed is only for emergencies. I’ll also have to start exploring the rest of the island, maybe the ranger’s quarters and the camp store. There might be an ax and leftover food supplies. I’ll need to build a fire, since I have no intention of becoming a sushi lover anytime soon.
Cracks and snapping twigs echo in the forest, but they’re mostly from me. And yet I stop in my tracks constantly to do a three-sixty. I don’t see the girl, or any other animals, but I can’t shake the feeling that there are eyes on me. Through the far trees, the lake ripples with a twinkle, as if winking at me. A few gulls cry out far above, circling. Somewhere on this hunk of island, there are wolves.
I spend the rest of the time hiking back to camp gripping the hilt of my knife.
The temperatures slowly rise to the point where I’m a sweaty mess after half an hour. Soon, I recognize the clustered trees where I hid my stuff. An empty plastic bag lies on the path only a few feet away. I pick it up, shoving it into a pocket. It could come in handy. I can’t waste stuff that other campers left behind. A few steps farther, and I see more plastic on the ground. This time, it’s a Ziploc bag. It’s riddled with puncture holes, and a scattering of peanuts roll around inside.
Wait.
Oh, no.
I tear through the brush to my hidden camp and glimpse a flash of orange and black fur. A fox scurries away into the brush with a tiny yip of glee.