“Let the paddles do the work,”Parker’s voice reassures, repeating what he said in that dream. And as much as I want to be comforted by the sound of his voice, a spark of frustration ignites instead.
Let thepaddlesdo the work? We’re rowing as hard as we can—especially Macy, at the back of the boat. Those words don’t make sense.
“Let the paddles do the work,”comes his voice again, steady and sure.
In despair, I rack my brain, sweeping my eyes across the raft at my fellow passengers. Our paddles are being used as powerfully and desperately as possible.
We can’t row any harder, I think in despair, as my biceps scream for relief.We’re doing everything we can.
“Let the paddles do the work,”he says yet again, calm as a summer’s day.
I want to break down and cry. The words make even less sense now than they did in the dream. All of us are working as hard as possible with the damn oars and paddles.
It’s then that a shadow flits across the bow of our raft, slightly darker than the gray light in the canyon.
Maybe it is a hawk, maybe it’s an owl. Something with wings hunting for a meal in the gathering dusk.
I don’t look up to follow its flight path, just watch as the shadow streaks across the neon green raft. It glides over the handle of Deborah’s paddle as she cranks her arm back across the boat, and then it dips over her life jacket, the sliver of wings stretching dark on either side.
I freeze.
A still-frame from that vivid, crazy dream of Parker leaps to the front of my brain, along with an even crazier idea.
Let the paddles do the work.
“Holy shit,” I stammer, barely able to believe what’s just clicked into place.
There is no rational explanation for why that dream suddenly makes sense.
But that doesn’t matter, if it gets us out of here alive.
I call out to the others. “Hey, hold on! Take a break for a second.”
Allie looks despondent. “We don’t have time to stop,” she insists.
“Give me two minutes,” I tell her. “I have an idea.”
34
I try to explain my insane idea as quickly as possible—Parker’s insane idea, really.
We all keep rowing slowly while I talk. Nobody is willing to stop entirely, unless this idea pans out, and I don’t blame them.
I start with the dream I had that first night on the river. The one where I was alone in the raft, except for my dead husband and a bunch of life jackets and paddles.
The reactions on the other women’s faces morph from confusion to skepticism while I ramble on. Imani doesn’t even look up, her eyes squeezed shut and her face a mask of pain.
I finish with the words I hope will be a mic drop. “In the dream, I thought the paddle and life jackets werepeopleat first glance.”
Deborah raises an eyebrow as she reaches forward with her paddle. “Okay …?”
Pam, however, suddenly looks like a light bulb has flickered to life behind her eyes. “Oh, oh my gosh, I think I get what you’re saying.” She looks around the raft in excitement and momentarily stops rowing.
I nod, relieved that my exhausted brain is making sense to someone. “Yes! I don’t think Leo actually cares whetherwe run Splinter Ridge, or face him at the portage. As long as he gets to watch us die, he wins, right?” I say, rubbing my aching arms.
“Maybe,” Allie says, drawing out the words and still rowing, “but how does any of that actually help us?”
“Because it’s getting dark,” I say. “And he’s not going to be able to tell whether we’re in this raft until the last minute,” I add with more confidence than I feel. “If we prop up some of the crap in this gear raft, strap life jackets and paddles onto it … somehow shape it, maybe we can make it look like all of us are still in this raft, rowing toward Splinter Ridge. When he sees us coming, he’s going to want to watch us go over the falls. Youknowhe is. But if we can all get out of the raft right before the portage and swim toward the portage pull-out while our boat keeps going … Then maybe we can somehow sneak past him on the trail, while he’s focused on watching the raft?”
