You slowly lift your head.
He’s opening pockets on his camp shorts. It takes him a moment to locate what he wants, but when he does, his eyes seem to jump.
“Look, Case,” he says. “Cavemen did a lot of badass stuff. No doubt. And it’s true that they would probably stomp us in a fight. But those guys didn’t have…”
He does a fake drumroll with his mouth. Then he brandishes something from his pocket.
“CAPITALISM!” he shouts.
With a flick of his thumb, a small flame shudders to life in his hand, emanating from a bright orange cigarette lighter. It’s a miraculous sight, a vision of pure, glowing hope. The fire flickers in the breeze, and you all follow its every shiver, transfixed.
“Behold!” he says. “I am modern man, and I make fire with my thumb!”
EIGHTEEN
The fire is too small. And, as it turns out, small fires aren’t that warm. Nonetheless, everyone huddles around the meager flames while you finish up “dinner,” aka some undercooked oats made from the almost-boiling water in your single pan. The food is just a drop in the bucket of your empty stomach, and you know you’re only going to get hungrier in the coming hours. With all the calories you burned today, you should be eating a ten-course meal. Instead, you’ve had the dinner of a medieval prisoner.
The recent dark has brought quiet. You thought the night here would be full of sounds. Strange birdcalls. The rustling of small creatures in the brush. But instead, it’s near silent and the occasional sound makes you jump. Everyone is exhausted, but nobody wants to be the first to go into their tent alone. You notice the small circle of your group growing tighter around your poorly built fire. There’s a long period of time when no one says anything. Nobody wants to be the first to say what you’re all thinking.
There’s been no sign of Silas so far.
Not even a footprint.
And it’s been twelve hours since any of you have had access to the supplemental medication that is the only salve against severe panic attacks. If this is a test, you’re barely past the beginning and it’s likely to get much worse. But nobody puts a voice to all this.Maybe because saying it will make it real. Instead, when someone finally speaks, it’s for a reason that surprises you.
“You guys want to play Fear in a Hat?”
Even more surprising: It comes from Diana.
Predictably, Will scoffs.
“Oh my god. Why would we do that?”
“Yeah,” says Fran. “No offense, but the guy who came up with that game didn’t exactly have our best interests in mind.”
You and Troy are silent. But your heart rate has already increased.
“That might be true,” says Diana. “But it also might be true that we’re not going to make it back to our old lives, and we don’t really know anything about each other. Is that what you guys want? To die out here with complete strangers?”
The wind has picked up again, and all you can do is listen as it whistles in your ears and threatens to put out your hard-earned fire.
“We don’t have a hat,” you say.
“Or any more paper,” says Fran.
“That doesn’t matter,” says Diana. “Just say what was on your sheet the first time. I know you remember. C’mon. Who wants to go?”
You’ve always been bad with awkward pauses. They make you deeply uncomfortable. So much so that you think about breaking the silence this time. It would be easy to do. You’d just say that your paper was blank and then talk about why. Then you’d say his name, speak that one syllable that matters. But before you can summon the courage, someone else speaks up from across the fire.
“The total annihilation of planet Earth.”
It takes a minute for this to register.
It’s Troy, and apparently, that’s what he put on his paper.
“You mean the whole earth?” you say. “That’s what you’re afraid of?”
“Damn,” says Fran. “I picked sushi.”
