But maybe she was getting ahead of herself, letting her pessimism take control, per usual. It was possible a boat would return for them as soon as it was light again. All they really had to do was make it through the night. They didn’t have to instantly become hunter-gatherers. She had to stop catastrophizing; this wasn’t hopeless.
Tomorrow they’d be able to search the house and groundsmore thoroughly. Maybe there would be something they could use. Like a spare boat to get themselves away from here. She wished she’d checked around for that. A retreat on a lake ought to have a few canoes, if not a powerboat. See, there was hope.
Worst case, she thought,we can hike around the lake.
Except, judging by the length of the boat ride, it would be a very, very long hike. Better if they could either be rescued or rescue themselves.
“Okay, another important survival question,” Mariana said. “Bathroom.”
Claire pointed to the woods. “Just don’t wipe with poison ivy.”
Mariana turned on her phone’s flashlight and aimed it at the trees. “Great and useful advice, if I knew what poison ivy looked like.”
“Three leaves with the two side leaves growing directly from the stem,” Claire said. She’d once researched poisonous plants before a family picnic. Her parents hated picnics but thought the fresh air would be good for her. They were always insisting that various things were “good for her,” without any interest in what she thought. She thought of how they always insisted a third of her plate held vegetables, how they limited screen time, how they signed her up for all-day ballet intensives without ever asking her, as if she were incapable of taking care of herself or making sensible decisions. Like this summer. She hadn’t had any choice about coming here. They’d decided the Lake House would be good for her, and that was that. In their eyes, she was their constant renovation project, in need of continuous care andguidance. Especially lately. “Often the leaves are shiny but not always. There are some harmless vines with three leaves, but if you avoid all of them, you’ll be safe.”
“Right. Got it. I’ll be right back.” With her phone, she tromped into the woods, away from the trail. They listened to her footsteps through the underbrush for a minute.
“My parents promised new experiences,” Reyva said.
“Mine did too,” Claire said. “Wish they’d been wrong about that.”
Kneeling, she made a circle of rocks and began preparing to light the fire. With Reyva helping her, she placed the birch bark and a couple of Mariana’s cotton balls in the center as the tinder and positioned the sticks around it in a pyramid. They didn’t speak while they worked.
As they finished the pyramid, Claire asked, “Have you ever fished or hunted?”
Reyva studied her. “You don’t think rescue is coming.”
“I think we don’t know,” Claire said, “and I don’t think a few granola bars and Hershey’s Kisses are going to last more than a couple of days.”
“Never fished before. You?”
“Once or twice, when I was little. My grandfather took me.” She remembered one such trip, age six or seven, when her nose had burned so badly that it started peeling by bedtime. He hadn’t known how to take care of a kid. But he’d tried. She still missed him. He’d been her only relative who understood how awkward she felt 90 percent of the time, because he’d felt the same way.She’d spent many holidays being awkwardly but pleasantly quiet with Grandpa, until her parents ferreted her out and forced her to play with the other kids. They never considered that she might not have anything in common with her cousins. One particularly terrible Thanksgiving, her cousin Emma had been teasing her to the point of tears, and Grandpa had told her to hide under the table. He’d covered for her with her parents, claiming she was off on a scavenger hunt organized by his neighbor, and he’d snuck her books and pie until the day mercifully ended.He never once acted like there was anything wrong with me, she thought. “He didn’t like fishing,” Claire told Reyva, “but he thought it was something a grandpa should do with his grandkid.” The theory wasn’t that complex: stick bait on a hook, lower the hook somewhere fish swam, and wait for one to bite. It helped to have a hook, line, and a fishing rod, though. And some idea how to gut the fish, which she didn’t have.
“Someone will come for us,” Reyva said.
“Rather not have already starved to death when they arrive,” Claire said. “I think we should at least make plans for lasting a few—”
A scream tore through the woods.
Claire spun to face the forest. “Mariana?”
Reyva plunged into the woods, in the direction of the scream. Turning on her phone light, Claire hurried after her.
It wasn’t hard to find Mariana. They could see the light from her phone, wobbling through the trees, and she hadn’t stopped screaming.
As Reyva reached her, she clapped a hand over Mariana’s mouth and shushed her. “Shh, it’s okay, shh, shh, quiet.” Mariana quit screaming. Instead she whimpered softly. Claire caught up a few seconds later.
“What happened? Is she okay?” Claire asked. “Mariana, are you okay?”
Reyva lowered her hand, but Mariana didn’t speak. She just shook her head and aimed her phone’s light at a clump of nearby pine trees.
And Claire saw the body.
It took an extra second for her brain to process what she was seeing.
It was a middle-aged woman, eyes open, mouth open, slumped against the trunk of a pine tree. Blood, black except when the light hit it directly, coated her chest, her right shoulder, and her left thigh.
Claire dropped to her hands and knees as spots danced in front of her eyes. She told herself to breathe. Just breathe. She inhaled and exhaled. In and out. Just in and out.
