Tarin and I fill the rest of the day by cracking lame jokes, peeing in the bush, eating tiny amounts of food, so as not to use up our cache, and napping, staying as close to the camper as possible. I know I should ask her again about the plan, but what’s the hurry? So much has happened already, it’s easier to live this way, moment to moment.
I get my phone out, and Tarin shuts off my tracking. I text Mother and Dad. Meeting up with Tarin. Don’t worry. Tell Stephen I’m sorry. I take a few photos of the woods, the squirrels, the sky. But my heart is not in it. I keep picturing Mother and Dad at the police station, clutching a photo of me; Dad driving around in his old blue pickup, looking for signs of me. It weighs on me, knowing I am putting them through another drama. Or maybe they’re so mad they don’t even care.
That night it gets so freezing cold that Tarin and I huddle together, shivering, under the thin sleeping bag. When the soft light of early morning finally comes, Tarin begins to snore. I wrap my arms around my head, but then I hear loud thumps coming from outside the camper door. I sit up quickly and whack my head on the low ceiling.
“Tarin,” I whisper. “Someone’s out there.”
She opens her eyes a slit, then shuts them again. “It’s probably a squirrel,” she mumbles.
The clunk comes again, louder, and Tarin’s eyes snap open.
“That’s some monster squirrel,” I say. She sits up beside me and clutches my arm. We hold our breath, listening. Nothing.
“Maybe it was—” Another thump, this time closer. I grab on to her too, and we stare at each other, eyes wide open, waiting helplessly for something—we don’t know what, but it will be horrible—to happen. We wait and wait like that, our faces so close I can feel her breath. Then our grips start to relax, and we pull slowly away from each other.
I let go of her hands and lower myself over the edge of the bed. Tarin sucks in her breath as I reach for the door handle and push until the door pops open.
The grass sparkles with dew. I don’t see anything, but my mind makes all kinds of crazy leaps: a creature of some kind, maybe a cougar, has climbed onto the roof and is waiting to pounce on us; a Sasquatch is throwing stones at the camper; a plane has dropped us a bag of supplies—thank God, because we’re already running low on toilet paper.
“Jess?” Tarin asks softly. “What is it?”
“I don’t see—” But then I do. There, on the edge of the bush, the backside of something big and brown disappears into the canopy of trees. I’m actually relieved.
“A bear,” I say. “It’s just a bear.”
The camper rocks as Tarin gets down and peers out the door. “Just? Just a bear?” She’s trying to whisper, but her voice is high. “A real one?”
“No,” I say, “it was Winnie-the-Pooh. Of course it was real.” I want to tell her to get a grip already, but I bite my tongue. She’s a city girl. “It was probably only curious, checking out the camper.”
“Or looking for breakfast.”
I don’t know if she sees me roll my eyes, but she plops down at the table and rests her chin in her hands. She looks helpless and forlorn.
“Speaking of breakfast,” I say, sitting down opposite her, “do we have anything?”
She sighs. “Well, not bacon or eggs or anything. But we have some canned ham left, and some Kraft dinner.”
My stomach does a flip. “No more Lucky Charms?”
She shakes her head. “I finished them off last night.”
A feeling of dread grips me. I didn’t bring food and haven’t contributed to our survival in any way. Maybe I’m not being fair, but I’d assumed Tarin had all the details worked out. She promised me an escape, not starvation.
The honeymoon is officially over.
“Don’t worry, my princess,” she says. “There’ll be plenty of food soon enough.”
“Is that right?” I say. “And where is it going to come from? Are little elves going to make a delivery?”
She waves her hand in front of her, signaling me to stop. “I have a plan. If you’d let me talk, maybe I could explain.”
Let her talk? She’s had more than ample opportunity to spill the beans. When she smiles across the table at me with an odd, crooked grin, it hits me why she hasn’t spoken up—she’s nervous. Tarin, Miss Screw-the-World-and-Who-Gives-a-Shit-What-Anybody-Thinks, actually cares about my opinion.
“My boyfriend is on his way to get us—he’ll be here any day now. Could arrive any minute, really. We have to hang in there, be patient.”
“Your boyfriend?” I say. “Won’t your mom think of looking for him? Won’t that mess things up?”
She shakes her head. “My mom’s never met him,” she says. “She doesn’t even know about him.” She’s looking down at her hands, cleaning her nails, and it hits me: she’s hiding something.
“Have you ever met him?” And the way she keeps looking down, I know the answer immediately.
“Oh my god,” I say. “You’ve never met him. He’s some guy you met online, and he could be a complete psycho.”
Her head whips up and her eyes narrow. “Falcon is not psycho,” she snaps. “He’s the kindest, sweetest guy ever. You’ll see.”
“Falcon?” My voice is shrill. “What kind of name is Falcon?”
She shakes her head, as if I am the one who’s an idiot. “It’s a nickname, obviously.”
Super Doc’s counting technique is about to fail me. “And what’s his real name?”
“I can’t remember,” she answers. “But who cares? He’s awesome, he’s got a car, and he’s willing to drive all the way from the coast to help us out. These are the important details.”
“You’re kidding, right?” I’ve watched the TV movies of the week, seen all the cop shows. I may be brain-damaged, but I am not totally out to lunch. Tarin looks at me, her eyes framed by black eyeliner, waiting. Waiting for me to freak out. And I want to. I want to scream at her, tell her it’s all her fault that I have nowhere to turn. Strangely, though, staring back at her, with her dirty hair and clothes, looking a little scared—of me—something inside of me shuts down.
Yes, I am mad. And freaked out. But part of me lets it all go, lets this awful feeling of being completely alone sink deep into my very core.
“Look,” Tarin says, “it sounds crazy, I know. But I’ve known him for almost six months, and you trust me, right? Anyway, it’s not like we have many other options.”
She’s right about that. But it’s a lot to take in, and I need time alone to absorb it all. I stand up and reach under the table for my backpack.
“I’ll be back soon,” I say. I push the door open and step outside, letting the door slam shut behind me.
I don’t think. My feet move, one in front of the other, toward the trees that sway gently in the breeze.