‘It’s gangrene.’
Tobin and Charlie are leaning over me the next morning, examining the scrape on my knee that I got when I fell on my way back from the pee spot. I’m not going to sugarcoat it, either: it’s a gusher.
Bloody in the middle and all green on the edges. That’s how I know it’s gangrene.
‘They’ll probably have to amputate,’ I say.
Charlie and Tobin look at each other, and Tobin slaps his forehead and shakes his head.
‘It’s not gangrene,’ he says.
‘Are you blind?’ I point to it. ‘It’s green, see?’
‘It’s a grass stain, you dope.’
‘That’s what you know,’ I say. ‘My fingernails are completely numb, and they say that’s the first sign.’
‘Who feels their fingernails?’ Tobin demands. ‘And who are they, anyway?’
‘They,’ I say. ‘Them. The people.’
‘What people?’
‘Is this really what you want to be talking about right now when I’m at death’s door? I need an ambulance and a doctor before I lose more than just my leg.’
Tobin blows air out of his mouth and looks at Charlie.
‘She’s ruining the whole trip,’ he says, and then he turns to me. ‘You’re ruining the whole trip, I hope you know.’
‘OK, now,’ Charlie says calmly. ‘First off, Lem, I think you’re going to survive, and so will your leg. We just need to clean it up, that’s all.’
‘I really think a doctor should do it,’ I tell him.
‘He is a doctor,’ Tobin says.
I watch Charlie pull a first aid kit out of a brown paper grocery bag. He opens the box and takes out some cotton balls and a plaster and some clear liquid in a bottle.
‘A real doctor?’
‘Retired,’ he says, dabbing a cotton ball with the liquid.
‘Oh.’
‘This might sting a little, but I think it will save you an amputation.’
I take a deep breath and squeeze my eyes closed.
‘Ready,’ I tell him.
‘Here we go,’ he says.
As soon as he touches me, I feel the sting.
‘Ouch!’ I say, jumping. ‘It burns! It burns!’
Charlie blows on it, which takes some of the sting away. The clear liquid also cleans up the green stain.
I guess they were right. No gangrene. Just grass.
‘It’ll be OK in a minute,’ Charlie says, taking a breath and blowing again. ‘I think you’re going to live.’ He dabs and blows again. ‘How are those fingernails doing?’
I check them.
‘Still can’t feel them.’
He smiles.
‘Perfect.’
I guess he’s right about everything.
This time.
But that doesn’t mean there isn’t a bug still burrowing into my insides, or that I don’t have malaria from the zillion mosquito bites on my arms and legs. I slap my neck and flick another mosquito off my finger.
A zillion and one.
Not to mention, I found out I’m allergic to expeditions. I didn’t know I was allergic to expeditions, since I’ve never been on one before. But clearly I’m allergic, because I’ve sneezed thirty-two times alone since the sun finally showed its face above the trees. My record is eight sneezes in a row without a single break.
Sneeze.
Thirty-three.
I wonder how many sneezes in a row a body can take before you actually achoo yourself to death. Maybe I’ll be the first. It was what woke me up this morning, and everyone else, too, since we all had our sleeping bags lined up in the same tent. Charlie said I was a good alarm clock and then put some dabs of white cream on each mosquito bite.
Tobin didn’t agree.
I figure this out because of all the eye-rolling and the forehead-slapping, and also because he tells me so once we get going on our after-breakfast hike.
‘How are we supposed to come up on any Bigfoot with you making all that racket?’ Tobin yells back at me over his shoulder. ‘You’re scaring them all off.’
Charlie is leading us through the woods with a large backpack hanging from his shoulders. Tobin is in front of me with the Polaroid camera around his neck, and I’m following with Tobin’s movie camera hanging from mine.
‘Like I’m doing it on purpose?’ I sneeze again. ‘I can’t help that I’m allergic to expeditions.’
‘Well, you’re ruining everything,’ Tobin says.
‘That’s so rude,’ I say. ‘You don’t think I’d have rather stayed with Mrs Dickerson, sipping tea and munching on cookies, instead of stomping around in the woods looking for a giant ape?’
Sneeze.
‘Again with the complaining.’
‘You’re the one complaining.’ I smack another mosquito on my forehead. ‘If I was going to complain, I’d complain about losing my blood to all the insects of the forest.’ I smack my leg. ‘But you don’t hear me saying that, do you? No, you don’t.’
‘If you’d let Charlie spray you with the OFF!, they’d leave you alone.’
‘That stink-in-a-can? I’d gag if I had to smell like that all day.’
Another eye roll.
‘OK, now,’ Charlie says. ‘It’s daylight, anyhow. We know they’re nocturnal animals, and coming upon an actual Bigfoot isn’t likely anyway. So let’s keep an eye out for evidence. A footprint, hair, scat, something like that.’
‘Patterson and Gimlin filmed their Bigfoot in the middle of the day,’ Tobin reminds him. ‘In Bluff Creek, anything is possible.’
Then he glares at me again.
‘Anything would have been possible,’ he mutters under his breath.
The volcano inside me bubbles on a low heat, making me want to snatch that stupid hat off his head and smack him with it.
But I don’t.
‘What’s scat?’ I holler up to Charlie instead.
‘Number two,’ Tobin says.
‘What?’
‘It’s number two. You know, poo.’
Did he just say what I think he said?
‘So, not only are we looking for a big ape in the woods,’ I say, ‘we’re also looking for its number two? That’s the most disgusting thing I’ve ever heard.’
‘Everything poos,’ Tobin says. ‘What’s the big deal about it?’
‘The big deal is you don’t usually hunt for it in the woods.’
Charlie stops then and pulls his backpack off his shoulders.
‘What are we doing?’ I ask.
Charlie unzips the pack and pulls out a hand-drawn map and an old magazine article from 1967 about Roger Patterson. Charlie and Tobin drew the rough map based on information in the article to try to find exactly where the Bigfoot was filmed. They’ve been studying it all week.
‘I think we’re here.’ Charlie points to a spot on the paper. ‘We need to head this way for another mile or so. Then we should be right up at the sandbar where they filmed her.’
‘Yep,’ Tobin says. ‘I think so too.’
‘How’s everyone doing? Everybody OK?’ Charlie looks at me.
Both Tobin and I nod.
‘Let’s keep going, then,’ Charlie says, lugging his heavy pack back over his shoulders. ‘I’ve got a good feeling we might just find something today.’
A zillion miles later, we finally stop. My feet are tired, and my nose is still running, and my mosquito bites are even itchier. But I won’t complain.
Not out loud, anyway.
‘I think this is it!’ Tobin shouts, pointing straight ahead. ‘Charlie? That looks like the dry creek bed. What do you think? Right up there! Through that clearing there!’
They study the map closely, and then look at the trees, then the map, and then the trees again. I yawn and lean against the big trunk of an old oak.
‘I think so.’ Charlie strokes his beard.
Tobin starts to run.
‘That’s the sandbar there.’ He’s pointing. ‘Right? This looks right, right?’
‘Did we bring any snacks?’ I ask Charlie.
‘For goodness’ sake, Lemonade.’ Tobin turns around to face me with his hands on his hips. ‘We’re only making cryptozoological history here. Our names might just be in every history book ever produced from here on out, and you’re talking Twinkies?’
‘What can I say? Making history makes me hungry.’
Charlie digs a Twinkie out of his backpack and hands it to me. It’s squished, with filling all squeezed out of the three holes in the bottom and smeared against the wrapper.
‘It’s all smooshed,’ I say.
‘Tastes the same.’ He smiles.
I take it and sit down in the grass under the oak while Charlie and Tobin examine the area to see if it’s official or not. I carefully peel the plastic wrapper off the golden cake to save for licking later, and then devour the Twinkie in three bites. Who knew expeditions could make a person so hungry?
‘This is where Roger Patterson stumbles with the camera, here!’ Tobin points.
‘And where she turns around and looks right into the camera, here!’ Charlie says.
I watch them while I start on the plastic wrapper, licking every last bit of the sweet filling. They study the map, then check for signs it’s a match. This tree and that rock and this clearing and so on.
When I’m done licking the plastic wrapper clean, I scrunch it in a ball and put it in the pocket of Charlie’s rain coat, still wrapped around me from last night. I rest my head on my knees, my eyes feeling heavier with each blink. My lids beg me to let them stay shut each time my eyelashes touch.
‘You walk the path the Bigfoot did, and I’ll take pictures,’ Tobin suggests to Charlie. ‘That’s good . . . yeah, now turn and look back at me . . . riiiight there . . .’ Tobin clicks the camera.
I sneeze, waking my eyes up for good.
‘Why don’t you just scare away all the critters of the forest?’ Tobin hollers at me.
My volcano wants to tell him to shut up.
But I don’t.
I stand up and brush the dirt off my backside instead. And that’s when I notice it.
Is it?
It can’t be. I squint really hard and take another look.
I think it is.