CHAPTER SIX
HANK
I place the last stick on the ground. “This is roughly the shape of the island,” I say.
Elliot tilts both of his eyebrows up. “Seriously?”
“Seriously what?”
He gives me a skeptical glance. “We’re on a penis-shaped island? That’s what you’re telling me?”
“It’s not shaped like a penis,” I object.
I did not just spend five minutes making a large penis out of rocks and sticks.
“If it’s a penis, then what is this?” I ask as I point to the biggest cove, a lopsided indent in the ball sack?—
Not the ball sack! The island.
Elliot shrugs. “Every penis is different, Hank.”
I sigh, frustrated to lose the thread, but decide there’s no point in arguing.
“Fine,” I tell him, regaining my focus. “We’re here at the corona of the glans penis now. We’ll need to walk down the shaft. At the scrotum, we can peer around each testicle. The far side of the island is rockier and looks difficult to navigate, so we won’t try to penetrate the bushy taint. Ideally, we’ll find assistance before we get there.”
“Go look into the butthole for help. Got it.” Elliot studies the map. “Should we split up, each take a side to save time?”
I rub the back of my head. “We really shouldn’t separate. We’re already in a weakened state.”
“Just our luck, we’ll have crashed onto an island inhabited by a violent cult. Or a classified military operation.” He swats a bug. “Or wolves.”
“I’m more concerned about falling branches and twisted ankles.”
Elliot nods. “Cool. We’ll try not to worry about a cult.”
He stands there, one hand over the colorful heart tattoos on his arm, nervously tapping his fingers. He’s kept his gold earrings through this all, little flashes of his style even though we’re both ragged.
I notice the dark specks of his brown eyes, the slight bump on the bridge of his nose, and the peachy undertone of his light, tan skin. He mentioned that he’s gay last night, and if I were his age, I’d probably think he was quite cute, too.
I push away those thoughts and double my resolve to step up and get us home. We’ve been exposed to the elements for nearly a full day now. It’s a nice, dry afternoon, moderately warm, but we’re both miserable, and every minute counts.
“Come on,” I tell him. “Before we go. I found something.”
I lead Elliot back a bit into the woods, beyond some towering Garry Oaks.
“Oh hey!” he says, excited. “You found pretty flowers.”
“Violets,” I say with a satisfied smile. “Early blue violets specifically, I think. But either way, they’re edible!”
“Delightful,” Elliot says and plops himself down in front of the patch of delicate purple flowers with their butterfly-shaped wings and dark, round leaves. He plucks one and smiles at it. “I don’t think I’ve ever eaten a flower. Or do you just eat the leaves?”
“All of it,” I say. I pinch one at the stem and pick it, then brush it off before popping in my mouth. “Not bad,” I add as I chew. “Sweet. And the leaves are a bit like lettuce, although mucilaginous.”
Elliot shoves a few in his mouth. “Delicious, gluey lettuce,” he says as he rips out a handful of the patch and devours it.
“Brush them off first,” I caution him. “Check for bugs.”
Elliot makes a blech face, but then reconsiders and shrugs. “Protein, right?” Although he does slow down and check the next violet before consuming it. “And you’re sure these flowers aren’t poison?” he asks casually.
