“Not big enough, I don’t think,” says Troy.
He stands on a rock on his tiptoes and squints.
“Campfire?” you say.
You look at the smoke from your own fire. So does everyone else. It’s the same color, more or less. And about the same amount.
“Maybe,” says Diana.
“Which means…,” says Troy.
“Someone else is out here?” says Will.
He shields his eyes with his hand.
“And not too far away,” you say.
“Silas,” says Fran.
And then you all get quiet.
When you look back at Fran, she’s no longer staring at the sky. She has her compass out, and she’s pointing it toward the column of smoke.
“There’s only one problem,” she says.
Diana walks up and stands close to her, leaning in for a look.
“It’s not true north,” she says.
TWENTY-EIGHT
The argument is not a long one. Everyone is too tired and too hungry for a showdown. But the agreed-upon facts are these: Another human is likely nearby (there’s a possibility, adds Troy, of a lightning strike, but it’s a small one). And if it is indeed a person, it might well be your defector in chief. Then again, it might not be. Either way, you decide, it’s going to help to be in contact with another person. They might have food. Or a way to contact help. Or… food.
But it’s also, undeniably, a gamble. Because if you can’t find this person, you lose time. And if it’s someone who won’t help you, you lose time. Also, and this quickly takes over the conversation, you don’t quite know what you’re going to do if it actually is Silas.
“I think pouring honey on his ass and leaving him on an ant hill would be fair,” says Will.
“We don’t have any honey,” says Fran. “And if we did, I would not pour it on an ass. I would eat it in front of all of you.”
“Maybe just the ants thing, then,” says Will.
You can tell Diana has thoughts about Silas, but she doesn’t respond.
Maybe it’s because you are portaging on an empty stomach again, heading toward the smoke, with boats on your shoulders and pain in too many places to count. In your pack is the makeshiftfishing rod, and you hope to whatever god Troy believes in that it works, because any nutrients you gained from that hellish foraged stir-fry have already been burned. You remember your dad eating leafy greens a few years ago toloseweight, which means there probably weren’t a lot of calories in those bitter tendrils to begin with.
Another problem, and one you’re hesitant to admit to the group, is that the pain from the back of your head, which was intermittent at first, has become more persistent. At first you thought it was psychological. You’ve had a side order of tension headaches with your anxiety for as long as you can remember. But usually that’s around your temples and forehead. This pain is definitely close to the place where you got cut by that rock before the storm. And when you reach back to run your fingers over the affected area, the wound is tender to the touch.
The portage is slow with frequent stops and dramatic moans along the way, and when you finally make it to the next lake, it’s so big, you can’t see the other side of it. Also, in the time you’ve been walking, the day has slowly grown overcast, and the clouds feel lower to the water. The lingering smoke, which is a bit to the east, is all but gone. Only a wisp remains, which might mean its maker is on the move. When you all shrug off your boats, balancing them on the rocky shore, everyone sits down to gather themselves for a moment. Diana walks off into the bushes to pee. Fran lies down and splays herself across the rocks.
“I’m too hungry to move,” she says. “Are there any lemon drops left?”
Will shakes his head.
“Nah,” he says. “Just the bag, which might be lemon-flavored if you eat it.”
“I’ll consider it,” she says.
There’s a prolonged rustle from nearby.
