Then I start running as fast as I possibly can. The end to this ridiculous bridge has to be around here somewhere. I just have to get to it.
Except the farther I run, the longer the bridge grows. And grows. And grows.
I follow it as it curves to the right, only to find this bridge/tunnel thing has suddenly become home to a field filled with the ugliest flowers in existence. They’re black and gray, puke green and baby-poop yellow, and somehow they smell even worse than they look. Like a skunk that’s sprayed its whole load and rotting meat and days-old garbage the city forgot to pick up.
My stomach cramps up at the first whiff, and I do my best to breathe through my nose as I carefully pick my way through the meadow. It doesn’t work—the scent is too powerful, and neither does trying to weave my way through theflowers without touching them (the last thing I want is to have them rub off on me and leave me smelling like garbage skunk when I finally make it to Anaximander’s).
But no matter how careful I am, it’s impossible not to brush against the flowers. They’re everywhere, and every time a petal touches me, a jolt of electricity crackles through me like lightning.
At first I just keep going, but then a really big, black flower slaps against my leg. Fire races along every single one of my nerve endings at the same time, and I decide that’s it. There has to be a better way. I just have to figure out what it is.
I look around, but there’s nothing to use to cut the flowers down or mow over them. For one ridiculous second, I think about trying to climb up to the inside roof of the bridge and use the beams there to swing across.
But the one time I tried the uneven bars in gymnastics practice last year, I fell and gave myself a concussion. So that idea is absolutely out. And so is scaling the latticelike walls. The last thing I need is to make the snakes mad again—been there, done that, definitely don’t need a souvenir.
Besides, either of those options—even if they were viable, which they absolutely are not—involve leaving Paris’s suitcase behind. I’m not going to do that, especially since he hasn’t left mine behind yet.
And that’s when it hits me. I can use Paris’s suitcase.
A glance behind me shows me that it’s mowed down every flower it’s gone over, leaving a crooked but flower-freepath in its wake. All I have to do is carry the suitcase in front of me and maybe—just maybe—it will act like a battering ram and make a path through these awful things for me.
Somehow I manage to wrestle the suitcase back into an upright position. Then I use both hands to grab it by the handle and lift it up until my elbows are as high as my chest and pointing outward. And so is the suitcase—which also happens to be exactly as high as these rotting flowers.
And then I plow ahead. It’s not fast and it’s not easy—in fact, every step feels like I’m slogging through mud—but it is effective. Paris’s suitcase is significantly wider than me, so it cuts just enough of a swath in front of me to keep me safe as I slowly make my way through the meadow.
It feels like it takes forever—my arms are screaming, my back is aching, and my hands feel like they’re going to fall off—but I finally make it through the meadow and back onto solid pavement without any more injuries. The second I do, the meadow disappears like it never existed, and so does the disgusting scent of those flowers.
Thank. The. Gods.
The first thing I do is drop Paris’s suitcase and my backpack. Then I bend over and stretch out my cramped-up arms and back as I call for my brother.
He doesn’t answer.
I call again, louder this time, but there’s no answering shout. Nothing but the echo of his name around me again and again and again.
He must have made it to Anaximander’s already. I don’tknow how, considering I’m moving as fast as I possibly can and am still on this awful bridge. Maybe it was easier for him because he ate so many donut holes?
Note to self: Next year, mud or no mud, get to the donut standbeforeParis. Also, train all summer for this ridiculous obstacle course.
Still, if he’s already off the bridge, that must mean I’m at least close to the end at this point. The thought gives me the extra shot of adrenaline that I so desperately need. I pick up my backpack and Paris’s infernal suitcase and take off running.
As soon as I do, though, the road bends upward. I’m forced to slow down as I slog up, up, up, until it feels like I’m climbing Mount Olympus itself.
As I climb, it turns cold around me, so cold that I start to shiver. So cold that my toes go numb, my hands start to shake, and my teeth actually start to chatter as ice crackles around me. Considering it’s the first Sunday in September, the weather makes absolutely no sense.
Then again, none of this does.
I push onward and upward, determined not to give in to the cold. But just when I feel like I’m about to freeze to death, just when I feel like I can’t go on any farther, the road curves downward.
The cold disappears and instead I’m hit in the face with a blast of heat so powerful it immediately thaws me out.
Relief sweeps through me, and I start running down the hill much faster than I managed to climb up it. But with eachstep, the heat gets worse and worse, until seconds later I’m perspiring right through my sensible blue blouse.
Sweat rolls down my forehead until it stings my eyes. It makes my toes squish in my shoes and has my whole body feeling like it’s about to go up in flames.
I push through because I have to—there’s no way I’m going back up that mountain and through those flowers and by those snakes. And just when I’m about to give up, just when I feel like every drop of water has been leached from my body and I can’t go on, the bridge ends.
I get my first look at Anaximander’s, and somehow it’s everything—and nothing—like I thought it’d be.
