I’ve survived another day.
I really want to upload some stuff to Instagram—but after finding out Thorn overheard me recording today’s vlog footage, I’m a little self-conscious.
“Need any help?” he asks, glancing over at my efforts to secure a tent peg in the ground.
“Not sure why you’d think that,” I reply. If I make a joke out of it,the truth will sting less: I, Sadie Whitlock—competent inmanyareas of my real life back home—have been an utter disaster out here. “Not like I’ve needed your help with anything else so far.”
He bites down on a laugh. “Right.”
I’m struggling with this particular peg, but too stubborn to admit it. Heknows, too—about the struggle and the stubbornness, I can tell—but he gives me space, pretends he believes I’ve got it under control.
I do not have it under control.
It’s partly secure, but I must have hit a root or something because the peg won’t go in any farther. Thorn hovers behind me, silent butthere, making it even more difficult to concentrate. I pull the peg out altogether, readjust the placement of the tent flap, and try again. It’s better this time, but still gets stuck three-quarters of the way into the ground.
An abrupt and resonant clanging suddenly echoes through the clearing, startling me—I flinch so hard Thorn and I collide, the back of my shoulder making solid contact with his chest.
Matteo, apparently, has a cowbell. “Dinner in ten!” he calls out.
“Sosorry,” I say, laughing. “YouTube did not say there would be cowbells.”
“Guess you must have watched the wrong videos. Are you okay?”
“Oh, I’m good—but areyou?” YouTube also did not advise on what to do when you accidentally bodycheck your wilderness guide.
“You pack the punch of a hummingbird,” he replies. “I’m fine.”
“I don’t know whether to be flattered or offended,” I tell him, grinning. “So what’s for dinner? Sushi? Steak? Ice cream?”
He laughs, playing along. “There’s that research coming through for you again. If you’re lucky, there’ll also be chocolate lava cake fresh out of the oven.”
“Please tell the chef I’d like raspberry sauce on mine.”Ugh, I miss raspberries.
“Want to know a secret?” he says, leaning in conspiratorially. It’s a nice change: a rare glimpse of the Thorn I met when I first arrived, before he became Super Serious Hiking Guide Thorn. “I have a bar of dark chocolate with raspberries in my pack right now.”
I pull away and swat his arm. “Who’s the overpacker now?”
He laughs. “If you’re nice, I might share.”
“Noted,” I say, playing right back.
At dinner, we gather around the campfire, devouring grilled corn and a variety of prepackaged nuts and jerky and dried mango, all courtesy of Matteo.
This is the best corn I’ve ever had—and that’s coming from someone whose best friend is absolutely obsessed with corn. Abby has dragged me across the country to not one butthreecorn festivals throughout our friendship together.
I’ve had every kind of corn imaginable. I’ve even hadthiskind of corn—the kind that’s been grilled directly over the fire while the husks were still on—but maybe Matteo’s just perfected his technique somehow?
Suffice it to say, it’s pretty incredible.
“Don’t get used to it,” Matteo says as I reach for seconds. “There’s only enough for tonight.”
“Can we convince you to come be our chef up at the coffee shop?” Trey says, licking his fingers. “You’re super talented, bro.”
“Thanks, man. Reminds me of Peru—one of the guys I knew down there made it all the time.” He grabs a second helping for himself. “I’ve thought about going to culinary school, actually.”
Matteo’s more talkative than I expected, especially after seeing how silent he’s been with Thorn. While the rest of us are exhausted andravenous after all the hours of hiking, Matteo has seemingly endless energy to burn. This is the fourth time he’s brought up Peru.
It’s also the fourth time Thorn has tensed up at the merementionof Peru. He rips off his corn husk in rather violent fashion.
