The trail is even more slippery than I remember. I have to go really slow because it’s dark, which I’m not used to, and because the trail is climbing and dipping. I’m terrified that I’ll miss the white blazes that mark the trail and get lost in the woods.
The fear of getting lost lodges under my rib cage, making my breath come out ragged. The squish of my boots getting stuck in the mud, the thick sucking sound as I pull them out, and the steady rain are the only sounds I hear as I trudge forward.
My path is blocked by a massive downed tree. I have to stop to climb over the trunk that feels way too big to have fallen by itself, but the light shows a charred mark and my hands feel where it split, so it must have been struck by lightning. This adds another fear to my list. In order to fight the panic that’s building, I fill my head with the imaginary sound of my drums. I’ve listened to that track so often that my head can replicate it at will. I keep those drums going as I walk through the woods, getting hit in the face with small leafy twigs that hurt like hell each time they make contact, but something tells me that Ghost is near and needs help, so I keep going.
I make it to the top of the incline and shine my headlamp into the gap below. I think this one is called a bull gap. Water moves below me, and it sounds like more of a threat than a soothing welcome. Every ascending part of the trail feels treacherous, and for once, I wish I was hiking with those poles that the older guys use. Especially on this sloggy trail.
I reach down and grab a long branch from the ground, break off some of the limbs, and use that as a staff to propel me forward. I’m making my way across what I’m sure is supposed to be a small creek, but it has become a rushing stream. I’m very glad for the extra stability of the staff, and I am almost across when I see a dark mass about a hundred feet ahead of me. It doesn’t have the same shape as a tree or a rock, but it’s hard to see in my light and the rain.
As I get closer, my pulse quickens. The shape is definitely human. A lying-in-a-lump-on-the-ground human. I race up the slope, not even caring about the stray branches that wallop me in the face, closing my eyes to avoid being blinded. It’s Ghost. She’s laying on the trail, her leg pinned under a tree. Her breath fills my ears as I bend down and the rain falls in heavy drops around us, my headlamp aimed straight at her face.
She puts her hand up to shield her eyes. “Are you trying to blind me?”
I shake my head. “Are you okay?”
“Sure. I’m fine. Just thought I’d lie under this tree for a while.”
“Right.”
I take off my pack and put it on the ground under a tree, still encased in the garbage bag Rain Man gave me. I look for a branch to use as leverage so I can get that tree off her. Somehow, despite all of the surrounding trees, there seem to be no suitable branches. Ghost’s teeth are chattering, and I can hear her breath sticking in her chest. I untie the garbage bag and open my backpack, pulling out my tarp and a blanket. I throw the blanket on top of her and the tarp on top of the blanket while I keep searching the forest floor. I finally find a useful branch, and when I circle back to her, she’s got the blanket up around her neck and she’s breathing into it, maybe even crying, it’s hard to know for sure with the competing sound of the rain.
“It’s okay, we’ll get you out of here in no time.”
Her head bobs up and down, and I go to work getting that tree off of her. It starts to lift. I hold my breath while silently thanking Dad for making me a swimmer. It’s made me strong enough to prop up the tree while she grabs her leg with both hands and pulls it out of the way.
I drop the tree, let out a breath, and then kneel next to her. “Hey, let me check that out.”
She looks back at the tree. “Who are you, Superman? Maybe we should give you a new trail name.” Her hands run up and down her foot. “I don’t think it’s broken.”
The rain slows a little and I feel like it’s a gift. “You think you can stand?”
She gives me her hands, and I pull her up. She balances on her good foot, then carefully puts the injured one on the ground. Her face contorts with a groan and she lifts it again.
“Here.” I hand her the stick I was using. “Let me get on my pack and then we can get yours.”
With our gear collected, I sling her arm around my neck and put my hand around her waist so she’s got the stick on one side for support and me on the other. We hobble forward, almost trip, and have to stop. She laughs a little, but it’s a tiny sound, like her lungs are too tired to exhale. I start to worry that maybe she hurt a rib or punctured a lung. First-aid pictures and descriptions float through my brain, because, yeah, I read up on issues you could encounter being alone on the trail. I can see all of them laid out in front of me. I try not to focus on everything bad that might happen, but on easing us forward, listening carefully as I do to be sure she’s still breathing. I hear her little whimpers as her injured foot inevitably touches the ground and her teeth chattering. I try to pull her closer to keep her warm.
“There’s a campsite up ahead,” I say.
“How do you know, newbie?” Her voice is so worn, the insult is barely formed.
“I looked at the map before coming after you.”
She stops. I almost fall.
“You came after me?”
“Well, everyone was saying it was dangerous to hike in this rain. There’s been flooding. And Rain Man said you’d gone anyway.”
“And you just had to—”
“I was worried. It’s a trail thing. My own version of being a trail angel, you know, like paying it forward. Or actually paying you back, since you saved my ass from a bear, in case you forgot.”
“How could I forget that?” She points. “Let’s set up here.”
It’s definitely a campsite, but there are no other campers here tonight. The rain slows to a drizzle.
“You want to find a shelter?”
She shakes her head. “Hate those.” She drops her pack and almost falls back with it. I reach for it and she pulls it away.
“Take it easy. I’m going to set up your tent for you, okay?”
She doesn’t answer. Just sits on a log, hanging her head.
I spread her tarp on the ground, then set up her tent. When I’m done, I reach into her pack and grab her sleeping bag, noting that her pack is still so damn light. Did she not restock? I leave the tent flap open and throw in new clothes. “You need to change, okay? You’re freezing.”
Then, I set up my tarp between two trees and put her pack and mine under it. I set up my tent next, and then get out my stove. I light it and start cooking the ramen under the tarp. I want to make her coffee too. I read somewhere that coffee helps open up the lungs. It’s the theophylline or something. It’s also supposed to speed up pain relievers. She needs both right now. So I reach into her pack and grab her stove. There’s almost nothing else in there. What the hell is she thinking? Why didn’t she resupply when she had the chance?
But this is not the time to ask questions. This is the time to assess her injuries and ailments. I start up her stove and grab my coffee supply, which I’m sad to say is dwindling. I could have used a restock myself, but I’ll think about that later.
“Hey, how are you doing?” I call into her tent.
“Uh.”
“Is that a good uh or a bad one?” I listen outside the door of her tent. “Hey, can I come in? I’ve got soup, and I’m starting some coffee.”
“Okay.”
I stick my head in. She’s buried under the covers and still shivering in her dry clothes.
“We need to check your ankle.”
“It’s okay. It hurts like crap, but it’s not broken.”
“How do you know?”
“I just know, okay?” She shivers some more.
“What about your ribs? Your lungs? Let me check.”
She pulls the covers up higher. “No. I’m fine.”
I put out my hand, palm up like surrender. “Look, I’m not trying anything. I promise. We have to be sure you didn’t break a rib or anything.”
I’m holding the soup, and there’s really no room to put it down, so I’m hovering, my butt hanging out of the tent, which makes me almost laugh. If Emily was here, she’d definitely laugh at how ridiculous I must look, but laughing for no apparent reason in this difficult moment might piss off Ghost. It would probably piss off most normal people, so I don’t.
“I’m sure I didn’t break a rib. And I’m starved. So the soup sounds good.”
“It’s from Rain Man. Homemade ramen.”
She rolls her eyes. “That sounds amazing. And not only because I spent the last four hours stuck under a tree.” She pushes herself up, and I watch her face and listen carefully. She makes noises like she’s sore, like Dad did after running or working out too hard at the gym. But I don’t hear any acute pain noises.
I hand her the soup. “I’m going to get you some ibuprofen, also sent by Rain Man.”
I leave her tent and open my backpack. I grab the bag of Liqui-Gels and bring the coffee with two packs of sugar, because I’ve got no idea how she takes her coffee. She’s sipping the soup. “Rain Man is the best.”
“Agreed. Here.” I hand her two Liqui-Gels.
She nods. “Thanks. Really.” Some color has returned to her cheeks.
I hand her the coffee. “This too, if you can.”
She holds up her hand when I try to hand her the sugars. “I take it black.”
Like my heart. Dad’s laughter comes to me.
I must have made a face because she asks, “Did I say something wrong?”
I shake my head. “Nah. My dad did also, but then he’d say, ‘I take it black. Like my heart.’ Which was a stupid joke because my dad was the nicest person on the planet.” This is the most I’ve talked about Dad, especially to a stranger, since he died. I wouldn’t even speak with that counselor. Or the guidance counselor. Or my behavior therapist. Nobody. Just this girl.
“That’s sweet. Your dad sounds great.” She brings the cup to her lips. “God, I love coffee.”
I put my hand over my heart like she did when I talked about the Where the Wild Things Are.
She laughs. After a couple of sips she says, “I’m really tired.”
“You need anything else?”
She waves me away. “Nah. I’m good.”
“Okay. Good night…” I almost call her Ghost, but I’m not sure she’ll like that.
“Sophie.”
I smile. “That’s a nice name. Good night, Sophie.”
“Good night, Wild…”
“Dylan.”
“Wild Dylan?”
“Just Dylan.”
She hands me the cup and her soup bowl and rolls over.
Before I even make it all the way outside, I can hear her breaths shift into sleep breathing. The woods are quiet with no one else here. Only Ghost and me and the sound of the drizzling rain. I heat another packet of food, this time the chili, and drink the rest of Sophie’s coffee. It’s weird that drinking out of the same cup and using the same bowl doesn’t freak me out. Instead it makes me feel sort of warm inside.
I rinse the dishes and pack out our trash, and then get ready for bed myself.
By the time my body hits my sleeping bag, I’m this weird combination of exhausted but too hyped to sleep. I look at the ceiling of my tent, listen for sounds outside that seem alarming. I hear none. My eyes shift toward Sophie’s tent, which is still dark. Should I go check on her? Should I go see if she’s okay? I roll over, face her tent full on.
Then this weird thought comes out of nowhere but hits me hard. I could go through her backpack while she’s sleeping. I can almost hear Emily’s voice urging me on. We rummaged through Brad, Abby, and Christian’s stuff all the time. But they sort of asked for it, lording over us with their earlier-in-the-alphabet birthright and all. What a weird family. But this time, those battles and Emily and my tiny mutinies feel fun and sweet and make me miss them all more. Even the older cousins.
Back to Sophie’s backpack. My curious nature sort of demands I act, but she trusted me with her real name. It seems like she doesn’t do that very often, so I don’t want to break her trust. Instead, I stare at the ceiling of my tent, thinking about the girl sleeping in the tent next to me. About how I’m changing my ways, even though leopards aren’t supposed to be able to change their spots. I think about Dad and how he’d be proud of what I did tonight, and that I’m glad that, wherever he is, he knows that. And all of that makes not breaking into her backpack and reading her secrets feel like the right choice. Mostly.