1
CAROLINE
If I get one more bug bite on my ass, I'm going to lose my ever-loving mind.
And then wage holy war against the entire species.
Who invented these creatures? What kind of sick, vengeful God designed the mosquito?
Once I die, I fully intend to march up to the Big Man and demand some answers.
Airborne, itch-inducing bloodsuckers—really, Mr. Almighty? As if menstrual periods and biting the same spot on the inside of your cheek over and over again weren't bad enough, you had to go and craft the most despicable insects of all time, and then give them WINGS?! Where is your Human Resources department? I'd like to have a word.
He'll rue the day He made me.
Then again, the way my day is going, that meeting between me and my Maker might come sooner rather than later.
Because I've been hiking through these woods since dawn, and the sun is now setting behind the treetops, and I am hopelessly, irretrievably lost.
There's no more denying it. I've spent the better part of the evening pretending I was right on track, that I knew how to read a map, that I'm not the prissy city girl I've always known in my bones that I am.
But I am. I'm New York through and through.
I like PopUp bagels on a Saturday morning after yoga in Central Park. I know my nail tech's daughters' names and birthdays. I have a standing order at the bodega on the corner of 78th and Lex, I know that any first date who suggests we go to Carbone is to be avoided like the plague, and I cannot, for the life of me, operate a motor vehicle. My last driving instructor handed me his card and quietly suggested Uber.
Yet here I am.
Deep in the Catskill mountains.
As darkness sets in.
With no non-mosquito friends anywhere nearby to save me from my imminent demise.
I'd like to phone a friend, but (A) I don't have any of those anymore and (B) my phone died three hours ago.
I can't blame God or the skeeters for that one. I knew it was at 12% when I first ventured off of the trailhead, and I made the executive decision that I would simply find Afon Satyrin before the battery gave up the ghost. Bad move. I mean, confident move, right? Like,you go girl,way to believe in yourself.
But, uh, yeah. Bad move.
I just figured it couldn't possibly bethathard. Surely a man does not hide from civilization for six months without leavingsomesort of breadcrumb trail, right?
And surely I, Caroline Eleanor Oglethorpe, daughter of one of New York's smartest attorneys, would be able to follow that trail like a bloodhound, right?
Wrong. God, I don't think I've ever been more wrong.
As it turns out, Afon is extremely good at covering his tracks, and I stand no chance of hunting him down. The trail—if you can call it that, which is generous—has dissolved into empty, featureless forest. Pine needles slap me in the face every fourteen seconds. There are leaves in my bra, in my hair, nestled deep in my unmentionables.
Have I seen that rock before? I definitely have.
Fuck me sideways. Am I going in circles?
I shift the strap of my backpack, summon all of my remaining willpower, and continue trudging up the side of this hostile mountain.
"You're fine," I say out loud. I started talking to myself around mid-afternoon. That's not what we in the Afon-finding business call"a sign that things are going well.""You're fine, Caroline. Any second now, you're gonna round a bend and run right into this elusive S.O.B."
I force myself to focus on my feet. One boot in front of the other, rinse and repeat. Like a bad dog on a leash, though, my mind keeps wandering back to my couch back home.
Well, it's not "my" couch, technically speaking, although I guess it also sort of is. My parents' will was complex, so it's taking a long time for the estate lawyers to sort through things. But I've been living in their brownstone pretty much since the funerals, so I guess calling it mine isn't crazy.
