Page 36 of The Wild Zone

I liked Silas. I didn’t like leaving other people in charge of things that concerned me. And Grant’s absence definitely concerned me. Still, I agreed to stay away from the Wild Zone. I just didn’t promise for how long.

“Good,” Silas said, clearly relieved. “I’ll check in with you soon.”

As he trotted away, I called after him, “Good luck with the hunt.” In a softer voice I added, “Both of them.”

I had just enough time to wash the clay off my hands and change my shirt before I had to fall in line for dinner.

8

You Really Shouldn’t Trust Me with a Lava Sprayer

That night’s menu featured fried chicken with mashed potatoes, biscuits, and corn on the cob—some of my favorites. I couldn’t help wiggling in my seat when the fried chicken platter came my way.

I plucked a breast and wing off the platter. I peeled off the crackling breaded skin and was about to cram it in my mouth when Elam knocked it out of my hand.

“Dude!” I scowled at him.

“If that’s your favorite part of the meal, you have to sacrifice it to the gods, remember?”

He pointed toward the smoldering brazier in the center of the dining pavilion. Kids were lined up, waiting to drop a portion of their meal into the flames. I’d seen them doing this last night, but I’d arrived at camp halfway through dinner, so I hadn’t performed the ritual myself. Apparently, the gods liked the scented smoke from our sacrifices, though why anyone would enjoy the smell of burning chicken skin, I wasn’t sure. Elam had just saved me from breaking another camp rule.

“Oh,” I said. “Thanks.”

Elam grunted. “I just don’t want the rest of us getting in trouble for your stupidity.”

My face felt as hot as the fire pit, but I smiled politely. “I’ll be sure to return the favor the next time you open your mouth.”

Our cabin was called, and one by one, the other Ares kids came forward to drop their favorite pieces of food into the pit, saying our father’s name. I heard them whisper requests, too:

Please help me climb the rock wall.

Please make me brave around snakes.

Please come visit.

When my turn came, I dropped the fried chicken skin into the fire with a wistful sigh. Please let my rescue plan work.

It was the first time I’d even admitted to myself that I had a plan. But the pieces were slowly coming together in my mind. I didn’t have any faith my dad would listen, much less help. But if there was even a chance, I had to try.

As the chicken skin hit the fire with a sizzle and a snap, the scent of toasted rice mixed with cinnamon wafted toward me. Definitely not the smell of burning chicken. Instead, it was the smell of home—my mom working in the kitchen while she hummed along to her favorite songs. Not my mom the Olympic sharpshooter, or my mom who insisted on straight A-pluses and at least three extracurricular activities a semester. Just my mom who loved me, cared enough to scrape me up some nurungji from the bottom of the rice cooker, and occasionally even laughed at my stupid jokes.

My throat tightened. My nostrils tingled as I made my way back to my seat. If anyone noticed my eyes were red, I would blame it on the smoke.

I scarfed down the rest of my dinner before anyone could make me sacrifice any more of it to a lesser god of chicken wings or something.

Toward the end of dinner, the conch shell blew. Argus stood at the head table.

“Campers!” he announced. “As some of you may have heard, tomorrow night we’ll be holding our annual fall baton race. The course will begin in the forest at Zeus’s Fist and end here at the dining pavilion.”

“What’s the prize this year?” called Beckendorf.

“Money!” suggested Travis Stoll.

“A camp-wide dance!” called Silena.

Argus held up his hands for quiet. “Something better! The winning cabin will receive an all-you-can eat sundae bar.”

There was a murmur of conversation among the tables but no all-out joy at the idea.