“The way I see it, we have two options for some protein here. The lake or the land. Only we don’t have a fishing pole or a gun, so we’re going to have to…”
“Eat someone,” says Fran.
She picks a cattail shoot out of her teeth.
“That is actually againstmybelief system,” says Will.
“Improvise,” says Diana. “I was going to say improvise.”
“Or that,” Fran says.
“We can make some kind of fishing pole, right?” you say. “I mean, how hard can it be? It’s just a stick, some string, and a hook.”
“Yes, Case!” says Will. “Hell yes. That’s what I’m talking about, man. You’re finally growing a little backbone.”
He gets up and cracks his knuckles. You’re ashamed to admit that you’re encouraged by his masculine accolade, excepting the wordlittle. So you stand as well and start circumnavigating the site, looking for a thin branch to use, but again, your energy is so low you can barely pick up your feet without getting lightheaded.
“I mean, I might eat something if you guys catch it,” says Troy. “I just don’t personally kill things.”
“You kill the mood,” says Will. “Is that a Noble Truth?”
You reach down and pick up a long stick that looks perfect, but when you try to bend it, it snaps like chalk in your hands.
“We need to make progress toward the drop,” says Diana. “We shouldn’t spend much longer here without covering some miles. If you could put a rod together, we can try fishing from the boats. Then we can hunt at our next stop.”
You start searching for sticks again and instead decide to snap a small branch off a nearby jack pine. Will clocks what you’re doing and holds a finger in the air. Then he somehow finds the energy to sprint over to his pack. He digs around, eventually producing a single travel dispenser of cinnamon-flavored dental floss.
“Line,” he says.
You point to him.
“We just need a hook,” you say.
This activates Troy, who immediately gets up and hunts around. You watch him as he eventually finds what he’s looking for: his weapon of choice. The collapsible whisk. He looks down at it and sighs. It’s his Excalibur, and he’s not quite prepared for what he’s about to do.
“Troy, no,” you say.
But he’s already getting to work, yanking one of the curved tines out of its slot, until what he’s holding is a thin metal wire, which he slowly curves into something approximating a fishhook. When he’s done, he hands it over to you to complete the holy trinity of homemade fishing supplies, knotting it in the cinnamon floss.
“What you imagine, you create,” he says. “Gautama Buddha.”
“That was almost cool,” says Will. “But you just ruined it with the quote.”
Troy flips him off, and you’re about to ask him what the Buddha thinks of lewd gestures when Fran materializes behind you and taps your shoulder.
“Hold on a second,” she says. “What the hell is that?”
“It’s a hook,” says Troy. “I made it out of the whisk. Didn’t you…”
“No,” says Fran. “That.”
You whip around, expecting another bear. Maybe a moose this time. Your heart is already pulsing through your chest. But Fran is not looking into the woods. She’s looking up.
“What?” says Will. “Where?”
He gazes up, and blinks into a pocket of sky. You do too. The pines block most of it, so it’s hard to see anything at first. But, eventually, sections of blue come into focus through the branches until you can piece together a patchwork of what’s above, and just barely visible coming up from somewhere in the distance is a ribbon of light gray smoke. The wind is carrying it toward you, and it zags under a whisper of cirrus clouds.
“Wildfire?” asks Diana.
