We stayed in the box a long time. Herod had moved out of our limited field of vision from the box crack, but from time to time we still heard snapping and what we thought was some kind of animal movement from outside. Since the day was now in full force, it could have been ducks or squirrels for all we knew, but the scare from Herod early that morning had put a fear in us that made us stay put. Anyway, I figured our parents would be out to get us in no time, as soon as they saw the note from Brady.
“So, in the note, you did say we were fishing at the lake, right?” I had to ask, because sometimes my brother likes to leave cryptic notes that no one can figure out.
“Yes, I gave them all the details. I wrote that we went to the lake at five o’clock, and we were fishing with Sunday.”
“Well, that’s good,” I said. “They should be here to look for us any minute now, since we didn’t show up for breakfast.”
“Yeah, as soon as Dad shaves.”
Now that was the kind of comment that can only mean trouble when it comes from my brother.
“What do you mean by that?” I glared down my nose at him.
“By what?” He didn’t look at me back.
“Why does Dad have to shave?”
Brady crossed his arms in a huff. “So he can see the note, of course.”
“What . . . did you put the note in the shaving cream?”
“NO, I did not put it in the shaving cream. That would be impossible.”
“Well, that’s a relief.”
“The note is on the mirror,” Brady said. “But Dad needs some steam from shaving to see it. You know how he and Mom leave those love notes for each other on the mirror? It’s science. Anyone can leave a regular note.”
I glanced at Sunday, who was still shivering but half-asleep, and I watched Rusty, who was grimacing while pressing one of her socks into her wound to soak up the bleeding. And then I yelled at my brother.
“Yes, any regular person would leave a regular note! Ugh! Haven’t you noticed that Dad hasn’t shaved in days? He thinks he’s a mountain man now. C’mon Brady! I thought you were supposed to be smarter than me!” I kicked an oar in his direction.
Brady slumped in the corner. “I’m sorry! I thought it would be a fun way to leave a note. I didn’t know all this would happen with the fish and the bear.” Then he started crying. “And I don’t want Sunday to die . . .”
Sunday woke from his half nap. “What did you say, my friend?”
“I don’t want you to die. From leukemia. And getting too cold. It would be my fault.”
“That is not going to happen,” Sunday said. “Anyway, if I died, I would end up in heaven, which is much better than here. So then I would thank you, if it had been your fault, but it would not have been.”
“Huh?” Brady scratched his head.
“He’s not making sense,” Rusty said. “Maybe if we put some of these life vests on top of him it will warm him up some more.”
“I am making good sense. Heaven is our true home. It is beautiful and there is no sadness, pain, or sickness. God is there too. I am excited to go someday. But not today because of a mad bear. Anyway, Brady, you were the one who distracted Herod away from us.”
“I sometimes wonder if my mom is in heaven.” Rusty tipped her head back to look out the hole on the lid of the box. Tears filled up in her eyes, and when she blinked, one slid down her cheek and ran down her arm and into the cut.
My whole body warmed up all at once. “No, she’s not,” I said.
“How do you know?” she asked.
“I’m not sure, but it’s probably like how you just knew you were supposed to climb out of the box to get that rope. Don’t worry, I’m sure you’re going to find your mom real soon.”
A little more time passed, and life in the box actually got stuffy from the sun beating down. Then we finally heard it — the call of the “Mountain Man.”
“Rileeeeeey! Bradyyyyyy!” I spied Dad out of the crack of the box. He was running, calling out toward the lake. His facial hair was gone.
“Hey, Brady,” I smiled at my brother. “Your note worked.”