I feel bad about it, but I chain Ginger to her doghouse so she won’t follow me. She whimpers, and I rub her ears as I whisper, “Sorry, babe. Be a good girl. Take care of Stephen for me.” I kiss the top of her head, then step away.
The trees sway in the wind, their trunks making cracking sounds, and my shoes crunch on the gravel. My body is tense, and I jerk at every strange noise, but I concentrate on following the beam of the flashlight on the ground, on breathing deeply and slowly. It won’t be long before I’m at the camper.
Once past the bison pen and near the creek, I pick up my pace. I wish I could have taken Ginger with me. Every snapping branch has me swinging the flashlight around, searching for the reflection of some creature’s eyes. The vastness of the night sky seems to swallow me up as I make my way down the path Tarin showed me. Inwardly, I beg the universe to please, please let this be the right way.
The wind whispers, telling me to hurry, to find my way before I am lost forever. Heart pounding, I focus on putting one foot in front of the other. And finally the trees open into a clearing and there it is, the moonlight reflecting off its metal walls. The camper.
I break into a run now. My pack thumps against my back as I get closer, and then I am standing at the door, out of breath. My hands tremble as I reach up and tug hard on the rusty little handle. The door pops open and I step inside, into pitch-blackness.
“Tarin?” I whisper. “You asleep?”
A few seconds pass, then a faint reply that’s muffled by blankets: “Oh my god!” The camper sways a little and there are rustling sounds, and when my eyes adjust to the dark I can make out the outline of her, sitting on the upper bed. “I nearly peed my pants,” she says. “You scared the hell out of me!”
I laugh, too loudly, with relief. I am here now, have made my choice. My pack slips off my back and onto the floor, and I let myself sink down after it. I am exhausted and exhilarated and terrified.
“That table turns into a bed, you know,” Tarin says. “No need to crash on the floor.”
I nod, which is dumb since she probably can’t see me well from up there. She clicks on a flashlight and climbs down, the camper rocking again.
“We’ll have to do a little safety check in the morning,” she says. “Make sure we aren’t going to flip this baby.” She props the flashlight on a shelf, then tugs at the tabletop, grunting, until she jerks back with it in her hands. She pulls out the metal tube it was propped on, then lays the tabletop between the two bench seats.
“Voilà,” she says.
She offers me a hand, pulling me to my feet. We stand only a few inches apart. I’m guessing she is happy that I’m here—after all, she invited me—but I feel a bit awkward suddenly, like I am crashing her pajama party. She gestures to my new bed. “You didn’t happen to bring a sleeping bag, did you?”
A simple question, but it hits me how little I’ve thought this out, that I should have actually taken the time to think about what I’ll need to make it on my own.
“Crap,” I say. It’s surprisingly cool in the middle of the bush.
“Climb up top with me.” Tarin steps onto my bed, and it creaks as she climbs back up to the bunk. “It’ll be a little squished, but we can figure something out tomorrow.” And what might that be? I nearly ask. Weaving a blanket out of some weeds? But I bite my tongue and follow her. I am determined to stay positive. We lie down in the cramped, musty-smelling space, and though she gives me half of her sleeping bag, I am still partly uncovered. I turn to face the door and close my eyes.
“Glad you’re here,” Tarin whispers.
“Me too,” I answer. The jitters in my stomach, though, tell me it’s too early to know for sure.