Allie looks at me, like I might have words of comfort for her, too.
All I can do is smile weakly, praying that exhaustion will get all of us through the night.
“Some locations along the Middle Fork are said to carry a ‘heaviness.’ A sense of unease may be reported by guides and passengers alike. Camas Creek is frequently mentioned.”
—Backcountry River Running: A Primer
14
My limbs feel leaden as I peel off my damp clothing, change into my pajamas, brush my teeth, and unzip my sleeping bag. My head pounds and my mouth feels gritty, like it’s lined with sand. I can tell I’m still dehydrated from rationing my water half the day. But trying to catch up now will mean having to pee outside in the darkness tonight, which doesn’t seem worth it.
“It’s a Nashville day,” I whisper to Parker. I realize I’ve gotten more comfortable with talking to him out loud out here—almost like the rules of regular life don’t apply in the wilderness. It’s only day two of the rafting trip, but the isolation, the physical labor, and the novelty of spending all day with strangers has made it feel like much longer.
“Send me a nice dream tonight, okay?” I murmur, shimmying farther into my sleeping bag and straining to pick out some stars through the tent mesh. But between the campfire smoke and the moon, all I can make out is the bright dotted line of Orion’s belt. I close my eyes and try to ignore the aching in my head. “The least you could do is visit me like you promised,” I whisper, an image of a hawk soaring behind my eyelids.
The least you could do.
My chest abruptly tightens with resentment. I try to shove the feeling down, finding it more unbearable than grief. Sadness feels gentler, acceptable. But anger I can’t reckon with. When my therapist suggested we explore my anger over Parker’s death, I’d stopped scheduling sessions.
Because Parker doesn’t deserve anger.
He suffered so much. He didn’t mean to leave me. And besides, what good does anger do me? I have nowhere to direct it. Parker is gone.
When I finally sink into a fitful sleep, I dream that I’m sailing through another rapid. When a big swell breaks over the raft, a fish pops out of the water and lands at my feet, wriggling against the slippery floor. I reach down and try to grab the little brown trout, but another wave hits, jolting me backward.
I right myself and try to grab hold of the fish again, squeezing my hand around him. I have to get him back into the water. He can’t breathe. But his slimy scales are slippery, the rapids unrelenting, my hands shaky. The trout’s mouth gapes in a desperate O, begging for help.
I fling myself into the bottom of the raft, trying to catch him, trying to save him. But by the time I manage to clutch him in my fist, the gills have stopped beating. The unblinking eyes stare back at me.
He’s dead and gone.
Sick with despair, I wake in a cold sweat. My stomach is so sour from dehydration that I worry I’ll vomit before I can get the tent flap open and stumble onto the sand. Mercifully, the nausea recedes a little as I sit up. I reach for my water bottle with shaking hands, taking tiny sips. A glance at my phone tells me it’s 1:29 a.m.
With my insides calmer, I lie back down on my sweat-stained sleeping bag and half-deflated pad, trying to ground myself. I search for Orion’s belt again, but my eyes still swim with tears. The more I resist them the faster the tearsfall, pain radiating and constricting my chest and stomach like a full-body muscle cramp.There is no emergency, I tell myself, again and again, focusing on the drone of the river.
And then, all at once, the night shatters.
“No, no, no! Help me!” The frantic plea slices through the silence so suddenly, I sit bolt upright, forgetting all about the dream.
From somewhere down the line of tents comes the sounds of a struggle: rustling fabric, limbs flailing, hurried footsteps, a choking wheeze.
Then nothing.
A surge of adrenaline makes my head swim. I freeze, heart pounding hard, listening. The chorus of crickets has all but fallen silent.
Is Allie having another nightmare? Is this going to happen every night?
In the quiet, I hear the sounds of one, two, then three tents unzipping. Then voices and footsteps moving along the sand, just like the night before.
I take a few deep breaths. Then, gritting my teeth, I pull on a sweatshirt and my sneakers. At the last second, I grab my water bottle—might as well refill it while everybody is up and moving around.
“Allie, honey,” Pam’s voice calls over the sound of a zipper. I step onto the sand and turn my head just in time to see her poking her head inside one of the tents a few yards away, moonlight shining on her auburn hair. “You’re having another nightmare, Allie—”
Time seems to slow as I recognize that something is wrong about this scene. Pam isn’t near the guest tents. She’s leaning into one of the guides’ tents, which stand apart in their own row.
I almost jump straight into the air when Allie’s voice calls out from right behind me. “No, Pam! Pam, I’m right—”
But that’s as far as she gets. Because at that moment, Pam stumbles backward from the open tent, screaming.
