Who would be getting into a raft at this hour? And why?
For a moment, I can’t hear anything else.
Then I make out the slow drag of a strap releasing from a buckle. Is one of the guides already up and making preparations to break camp or start breakfast?
I pull my phone into my sleeping bag to conceal the light and peek at the screen. Only 4:08 a.m. Breakfast isn’t until eight.
Goosebumps prickle along my arms.
I consider easing open the flap of my tent, yet again, to take a peek. I already know I won’t be able to see anything except shadows along shore, though. And if someoneisin one of the rafts, what am I going to do about it? Make another scene in the middle of the night?
It’s probably one of the guides, I tell myself. But my unease hovers, keeping sleep at bay.
Seconds later, the faint sound stops and the chorus of crickets resumes. No more tent zippers, no more footsteps, just the river and the faint sound of snoring.
For the third time tonight, I push images of the Camas Creek murders from my mind and close my eyes tight.
You’re safe. There is no emergency happening right now,I remind myself, practicing the words my former therapist instructed me to repeat.Go back to sleep.
“In the backcountry, help is not coming. This simple fact should inform every decision you make.”
—The River Guide’s Almanac
9
When I wake again, the world outside is washed in gray. It’s not bright, but at least the darkness is gone. I lie there for a moment, listening. Laughter, voices, the metallic clatter of Dutch ovens—nothing out of place. The sounds you expect to hear at camp.
My stomach rumbles at the thought of breakfast. I pull a hoodie over my tank top and slip into my sneakers. There’s no point brushing my tangled hair since it’s just going to get drenched in rapids and sunscreen, so I draw it into a messy low bun and throw on a faded baseball cap.
Outside, the aroma of wood smoke and bitter coffee color the chilly air. The river smells like a wet stone, its surface almost still except for the quick ripples made as a trout snaps at mayflies. Eggs and potatoes sizzle in a blackened cast-iron skillet above the fire. Judging by the number of women already hunched over plates, I’m the last to get up and moving.
“Good morning, Sleeping Beauty,” Josh calls as he dishes out a steaming scoop of eggs onto Pam’s plate. “We were about to send someone to wake you up, but we didn’t want to risk scaring you again.” He sends a pointed glance in Allie’s direction. Thankfully, she’s too busy spooning breakfast potatoes into her mouth to notice.
Gracie finishes refilling the coffee pot and playfully elbows Josh. “Leave her alone, now. Everybody is doing just fine this morning. We have coffee and food in our bellies. What more could we want?” She waves me over to the folding table and thrusts an empty plate into my hands. “The quiche and potatoes are almost gone, so load up on—”
“What the hell, where is it?” interrupts a voice near the water.
Everyone, including me, freezes. Our heads swivel in the direction of the angry voice. In the shallows beyond the beach, Macy stands beside Bryan at one of the gear rafts, her hands on her hips.
Bryan stops tightening a strap, looking like a deer caught in headlights. “Where iswhat?”
Macy mutters something under her breath, yanking a small orange crate—it looks like a tackle box—from within the gear boat. Ignoring Bryan, she marches straight for the breakfast spread, where I stand with my plate outstretched.
“Josh,” she says, lowering her voice. “Did you do the security check last night?”
Josh slides a slice of quiche next to the potatoes onto my plate, then squares up to face her. He hesitates a moment, pulling his fingers through his beard before saying, “Yeah … I did it right before everybody went to bed. Same as always.”
“What’s the problem?” Gracie asks, moving between me and the other two guides. The conversation around the campfire has ground to a halt, and every head swivels in our direction. Nobody is even pretending not to eavesdrop.
Bryan eases himself down from the gear raft and comes toward the group of guides hesitantly, like he’s afraid of getting yelled at again.
“What’s happening? What’s wrong?” Beth calls out, cradling her coffee mug.
“Nothing, just wrangling some gear,” Macy calls back to her. “Give us a second, okay?”
Beth reluctantly turns back to the fire, and the conversation around her picks back up.
I suddenly realize that Macy is looking pointedly at me. She purses her lips and gives me a tight-lipped smile. Then she waits in silence until I carry my breakfast plate over to the coffee station.
