I can’t tell if the roar in my ears is an approaching rapid, or blood pounding through my head like a hurricane. For a moment, I can’t even bring my arms forward to keep the paddle moving.
The only thing I can think is,He’s cancer.
When I was in middle school, my aunt got diagnosed with stage four bone cancer. The doctors told her it had been inside her for years, probably. It had been there all along, patient and plotting and deliberate. It hadn’t shown up to kill her overnight, even though that’s what it felt like when she died right after her diagnosis my freshman year of high school. It was lying in wait. And she’d missed the signs until it was too late.
Just like Leo Marsden.
He’s still right behind us. Still laughing. Rowing smoothly forward with those powerful guide oars while we struggle.
Anger flares inside me so fiercely it actually warms me to my frozen toes. I use it, digging my paddle into the water, turning to lock eyes with Allie as she does the same.
She meets my gaze, the whites of her huge eyes round and shiny with tears.
“Don’t listen to him,” I whisper. “You didnothingwrong. You couldn’t have known.”
A well of unexpected tears pool in my eyes as Imani rests her good arm across Allie’s back in silent support.
Deborah mutters something unintelligible, and at first I think she’s going to disagree. Then she seethes, “Fuck him. Don’t listen to anything he says. We’ve survived this long. Now we’re going to ruin his plans.”
I want to agree with her. But we’re exhausted, dehydrated, possibly hypothermic—and in Imani’s case, possibly slowly bleeding out.
Behind us, Leo follows with even, unhurried strokes, looking like he’s only getting started.
For the next hour, we stay just ahead of him, rowing hard as the river channels us forward like some endless, awful amusement park slide. Then the water turns volatile, waves and spray breaking over the side of the boat as we fight to advance, to stay forward, to spot holes and obstacles that could trap or flip us.
With each curve of the canyon, I tell myself we’re a little closer to escape. Each time we come out the other side of choppy water and churning waves, it means we’ve passed through another Class Three rapid—another milestone, even though my arms are on fire and my throat begs for a sip of water. We’re doing this, but there’s no time to catch our breath, no time to celebrate. Because all the while, the guide boat glides behind us with ease, those long oars doing the work of at least two rafters.
“What is that?” Pam asks suddenly, pointing at the canyon wall to my right, her voice nearly lost to the sound of the building rapids.
I crane my neck to see what she’s pointing at. The first suggestion of dim gray light is brightening the rim of the canyon, promising that dawn is on its way, but it’s still difficult to make out much detail.
Then I see what Pam is talking about. There’s a narrow, rocky shore at the base of the canyon—only a few feet wide against the sheer cliff edge. And about eight feet up the cliff,where a narrow shelf extends above the water, are three stacks of pale rocks.
“What are those?” I ask.
“Cairns. Stone markers,” Allie calls over the growl of whitewater. “I can’t remember the name of the rapid, but I think this is the next Class Four. Josh mentioned those stacked rocks … A few people have died here.”
Shit.“What else do we know about this one?” I ask, scanning ahead through the dim, pewter-colored light. “Does anybody remember anything else?”
“Hang on, I remember the name—Haystack!” Pam bursts out, then lowers her voice, leaning forward while she peers back over her shoulder.
Leo is still there, but he’s maintaining a distance of maybe fifteen yards. He isn’t about to let us trick him into leading the way like we did last time.
Pam goes on. “I remember Josh saying that this run has a bunch of nasty boulders to navigate. During spring when the water is high, they get covered up and turn into holes. Later in the season when the water is lower, those boulders turn into bumpers on a pinball machine. And … there’s also another Class-Three rapid almost immediately after it, so it’s gonna be whitewater for a long time.”
I think quickly, trying to force my exhausted brain to work, to prepare for what we’re about to face. In July, river flow is about mid-level, so that means we can expect either holesorthe pinball boulders. Or both.
I grip my paddle more tightly. This is going to be a total crapshoot, but there’s nothing else we can do except push forward and hope like hell.
The water, turning steel gray beneath the rapidly brightening sky, is moving so fast now that our efforts to row barely matter anymore.
As the canyon edges in and the river constricts, I catch my first glimpse of big whitewater ahead—spraying high above a minefield of silhouetted black boulders.
“Shit, oh shit,” I cry, unable to stop the panicked words from tumbling out of my mouth. “Everybody row together! Imani, hang on!”
26
The raft drops into the first chute, slamming down hard and sending a wall of water over the boat, obscuring my view of the scattered black boulders that look like teeth in a rabid mouth.
