Текст книги "Dead River"

Автор книги: Cyn Balog

Соавторы: Cyn Balog
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Chapter Six

Justin holds my hand on the bus ride down to the river. He likes to trace letters in my palm, secret messages, but this time I’m only getting fragments. First a U, then some other letter, then a K. He looks at me expectantly, but I’m just puzzled.

He does it again. This time I concentrate on it. U O K. You okay?

I smile at him and nod, even though my hands are shaking. For some reason, I can’t stop myself from looking at the Death side of the river. It probably doesn’t look much different from this side, but I can’t get it out of my head. And if I was going to start making up voices in my head, why would my head choose a phrase like What the devil is that? And in the accent of a gruff Australian guy? I never knew my subconscious was that creative.

The bus bumps along, and the blueberry muffin I’d taken nibbles of in the back of the office bumps along with it in my stomach, threatening to make an escape. Hugo is mumbling something about how the zipper on his wet suit is chafing his neck, and meanwhile Angela, looking prettier than I’ve ever seen her, is just staring out the window at the river like it’s a cookie she wants to take a big bite of. Justin is tracing messages on my hand again, but this time all I catch is a V and a U. It doesn’t matter. I know what he’s saying. I turn his palm over and trace LUV U 2 on his.

The bus jostles us along for a few miles and then turns toward the river, down a narrow path that’s more potholes than road. A beefy guy with a crew cut, probably in his mid-twenties, comes down the aisle, finally stopping at the seat in front of us. “Hey, I’m Michael. Your guide,” he says to us, shaking Justin’s hand. “Not that you’ll need a guide.”

“Have you been out there on this release yet?” Justin asks.

Michael exhales. “Oh yeah. Yesterday. It’s going to be a blast. Great time.”

Justin and Angela nod, excited. I look out the window to see rows of equipment lined up in metal cages near a long pier. I guess we’re here, at put-in. Everyone starts funneling off of the bus and for a moment I can’t seem to find my legs, but then I stand and follow Justin and the rest of my group. Someone hands me a paddle and straps a helmet and life jacket on me and we walk out toward the pier. We wait for the other groups of people to load onto their rafts and push off, and then it’s our turn. I can’t believe I’m finally doing this. I step into the raft and it bucks and I look for a seat. A seat belt. Something so I won’t fall out.

“Where do we sit?” I ask Justin.

He pats the edge of the raft.

“But there’s—that’s—impossible,” I stammer. It all looks so precarious, like dangling one’s feet out the window of a high-rise building. And he knows I have no sense of balance. I sometimes fall over walking on level ground. This is just an accident waiting to happen.

Justin knocks on my helmet lightly. “You’ll be fine. I’ll be right behind you.”

I swallow and attempt to sit down on the raft, then straighten again. This can’t be right. I’ll fall out the second the raft moves. “Wait. Where do I put my feet? Do I, um, straddle it?”

Angela laughs and sits like she’s slipping into a comfy recliner. “No. Keep your legs in. Like this.”

I follow her, but I might as well be sitting on a marshmallow. The raft pitches a little, then a lot when Justin sits down. I lurch forward, then dig the heels of my water shoes in and steady myself before I can kiss Michael’s backside. He’s sitting in front of me, so I’m flanked by two burly, manly men. Nothing to worry about, right?

Wrong.

Michael strokes his scruffy goatee and smiles at me. “Virgin?”

“Um, excuse me?”

“First time on the river?”

“Oh, er. Yes,” I say, thinking, Does he even need to ask that?

“Don’t worry. Piece of cake,” he says, but I can’t help feeling that everyone is saying that only because they’re a lot braver than I am. If it’s a piece of cake, why am I wearing a helmet that makes my head look twice its normal size? “Now, my first time as guide. Two years ago. That was a story.”

“Oh really?” I mutter, not wanting to hear, since with my luck it probably has to do with someone’s death or dismemberment. I look over the edge of the raft at the dark water frothing beneath me, and I try to take deep, cleansing breaths. If only my dad could see me now. He’d be so … out of control.

I picture my dad’s face, turning tomato-red under his beard, his eyes bulging as he condemns me to spending the summer at home, grounded. And for what? This totally fun experience? We haven’t even pushed off yet, and I already feel seasick. Maybe Dad was right.

Michael obviously doesn’t sense my lack of enthusiasm in reliving his exciting first days on the river, because he continues on: “Yeah. One of the factories upriver, on the Androscoggin, made clothing forms. You know, mannequins and stuff. It closed down in the 1950s. But two years ago they were demolishing all the factories to make way for some condos. And somehow a bunch of the forms ended up in the river, and during the dam release, with the water churning the way it was, they looked like dead bodies.”

Of course, dead bodies had to be in there somewhere. But it is kind of interesting. I find myself saying “Really?” and wanting to hear more.

“Yeah. Funny thing was, all the guides were jumping in to save them. So we were soaked before we even started. And it’s not fun to spend three hours soaked on this river in early May.” He laughs. “The good thing was, I’ve never had it any worse than that first time.”

Well, that’s a good sign, at least. Surprisingly, I feel a bit of calm trickle over me.

“Okay, Chief,” Justin says from the back. For some reason he calls guys in a position of authority Chief; I guess it’s in preparation for his police job. Either that or he likes to pretend he’s part of an Indian tribe. “We’re all set.”

The calm doesn’t last; my heart buckles in my chest as we push off. For a second I look longingly at the pier, but only for a second, because soon we’re in the middle of the river. No turning back. I grip the paddle in my hand so hard that I’m surprised my fingers don’t make dents in the handle. I’m so stiff, afraid to even breathe because that might throw my balance off.

After a few minutes, I loosen up a little and exhale. I manage to take my eyes off the river ahead for a moment or two to take in the shimmery, light green buds appearing on the trees and enjoy the fresh, clean smell of new spring growth. Actually, it’s not bad. Just coasting, I tell myself. Great scenery. We dip and toss, but only gently. Michael leans his oar over the side and begins paddling, so I do, too, imitating him perfectly. I almost forget that there are rapids up ahead, until Michael calls out, “Spencer Rips is first.”

“Spencer who?” I ask, but then I see it. Peaks of white on the river ahead. At one point, the rushing water seems to disappear into a void, only to show up farther downstream. A waterfall. I want to hide at the center of the raft, but instead, I follow Michael and just brace myself as we dip into the wave. A wall of icy water hits me square in the face and I bite my lip, tasting grit. Angela lets out a shriek—not of fear, knowing her. And I’m right, because two seconds later she shouts, “Awesome!” I swallow, thinking that this is how different my cousin is from me; never in my life could I consider eating dirt to be awesome. I don’t think my paddling does much, but I keep doing it, because everyone else is, and what if it’s all that’s keeping me from an icy swim in the Dead?

A few tense minutes later, the river evens out. I exhale slowly and Michael looks back, smiling. “No sweat, right?”

Justin claps me on the back. “You did it.”

I did it. Yes!

Michael relaxes and says, “So, as I was saying, this job is crazy. That was the first of many, shall we say, interesting excursions on the Dead.”

Now I’m all ears. Almost relaxed, even. “Like what?”

“Well, there were the dudes who insisted on rafting completely naked, except for their helmets and paddling jackets. And the ladies who were part of a reality TV show. They thought it was a sightseeing tour of the river. One of them chipped a nail and all hell broke loose.”

I laugh.

“Yeah. Robert was all like, ‘Put a sock in it and get your arses on the raft.’ And he took out a knife and started waving it at them.”

“Robert?” I ask. “You mean Robert Skiffington? Pat’s uncle?”

“Yeah. He’s crazy. He used to jump into the river in the winter without a wet suit. And after the ride, he’d run around base camp screaming and laughing and peeking in the tents of the female campers.” He laughs. “The Australian outback must have fried his brains, man.”

I stare at him for a second. Something clicks in my mind. “Robert Skiffington was Australian?”

“Well, no. He was born here. But he lived there awhile or something.” He laughs. “Man, I miss him. We keep wondering when he’s coming back.”

Somehow, even though a thin drizzle is still falling, I see the early light of dawn poking through the trees behind the Outfitters office building. I see a wiry man, setting off with hiking boots and a backpack that is half his size slung behind him. I see him stop to gaze out on the river as the shadows of the trees stretch in the new pink-orange light. His eyes mist over. Well, I’m not going to be seeing you, my dear, for a while.

And then, not a moment later,

What the devil is that?

And suddenly I know something, almost as sure as I know my own name. I know that two years ago, Robert Skiffington left with his pack, hiking up toward the Appalachian Trail. I know that he saw a cold white hand protruding from the water in the shadows of the dawn. I know that he said What the devil is that? before sliding down the embankment, his head thudding against a log with a sickly crack as his hand reached for that white limb, only to find the solid, completely inhuman material of a mannequin form, before he faded out of consciousness.

And I know he’s not coming back. Because the truth is, he never left.

Chapter Seven

Okay, I tell myself. Breathe.

This has got to be my imagination. Robert Skiffington is very much alive, hiking the Appalachian Trail somewhere miles away from here.

Isn’t he?

I exhale as the vision subsides, but my eyes immediately dart to the side, to something I know does not belong. There, sitting where Angela should be, and wearing a prim white gown, is Lannie. She smiles through her tears. “Remember me, Tootsie?”

At first I’m surprised I know her name, know anything at all about her, but then it all comes flooding back to me. She was one of my friends, one of my constant visions when I lived on the Delaware. She was always there with me, telling me stories about the summers she and her sister spent on the water. They’d go tubing and have picnics by the river, and it all seemed like so much fun. Lannie was the daring one, jumping into the river without a second thought, laughing endlessly at me whenever I tried to take things slow. I always wished she was my sister, because there were no other children where I lived and I desperately wanted other kids to play with. She was my one and only friend. My imaginary friend.

“You’re not—Why are you—” I sputter, and then all at once she disappears and is replaced by that girl in the pink party dress, her eyes dark and hopeless.

I’m snapped back to reality before she can open her mouth and spew mud. The waves churn around the raft, matching the tumult going on inside me. “What are you doing here?” I ask her, but by that time, she’s gone.

Crack. I hear it again and again, that sickening sound of Robert’s skull smashing against a rock or a log or whatever. Always What the devil is that? followed a minute later by that horrifying sound that can only mean the end of Robert Skiffington’s life. He’s dead. Gone.

And somehow, I’m the only one in the world who knows it.

The whispers start. At first I think it’s nothing, the new spring leaves rustling gently around us. But eventually I can make out actual words. So many different voices, speaking at once. Asked … devil … you … A whirl of words, nonsensical ramblings, growing louder and louder, until they drown out all other sounds. Pain blooms in my forehead and doesn’t subside when I press my hand against my temple. Instead, the voices only grow stronger. Now I can almost make them out. I know that if they get any louder, my head is bound to explode.

I turn around, still clutching the paddle. “Justin,” I whisper, trying to catch my breath. Somehow, though we’re in the outdoors, it feels like there are walls closing in on me. Walls of water, bearing down on me, waiting to sweep me downriver. Justin is only an arm’s length behind me, and yet it seems like he’s a mile away. “I need to get out.”

I can tell from the look in his eyes that he’s hoping I’m kidding, because I know there’s no way I can simply get out. Instinctively he moves forward and puts a hand on my shoulder. “What? What’s wrong?”

By now the voices are screaming in my head.

I did everything you asked of me.

“I can’t—” I swallow. “I can’t breathe.”

He’s the one. Get him.

Justin scuttles to my side, grabbing the paddle from me. “Calm down,” he says. “You’re okay.” But I’m not. My heartbeat is thudding in my head. My mind, my ears, my entire body is pulsating, filled with echoes. Echoes of the dead.

The girl in the pink party dress, filth spurting from the open crevasse of her mouth, reaches for me first. I squeeze my eyes shut, but I see them all perfectly in the darkness. When I force my eyes open, everything is swirling. Masses of pine needles look like matted human hair, and branches like brittle brown bones, churning in white foam. And then suddenly, from the foam, I see the hands. Ghostly fingers reaching up, sliding along the edge of the raft. Reaching for me.

“Oh my God,” I manage. Is this what my mother saw before she … Suddenly I’m screaming. Angela’s now looking at me, launching into Florence Nightingale mode. I hear her voice among the others, distorted like a record being played at too slow a speed, What’s wrong? Ki, what’s wrong? But the only thing I can get out is “Justin” as I claw at him, grasping for him desperately.

He’s like an image in a dream I keep running to, though every step closer brings me one step away. Though his arms are around me, they’re not keeping me safe. It’s almost like they’re pushing me toward the waves, too. I try to wrench myself free and move to the center of the raft, but everything is forcing me toward the water. Or maybe it’s just that the river is pulling me to it, wanting to hold me closer. Another wave kicks up and splashes us, jerking the raft to the side. We’re in another rapids, and suddenly I’m over the edge and Justin is holding me by the arms. My body is in the water, and, strangely, it’s not bitingly cold. It feels warm, almost inviting, but I still clutch for something to get me out. Michael reaches over the side, trying to pull me back, shouting, “Hold on! Hold on!” Someone calls, “What the hell is going on?” I can tell that nobody knows what’s happening. I feel the pressure on my legs, under the water. As strong as Justin and Michael are, they’re no match for the hands that are under the water, clutching me. Pulling me down.

“Don’t let me go,” I whimper to Justin, and he strains to say “I won’t,” but I can tell he’s confused, unsure as to why he can’t hoist me back into the raft. I weigh half of what he does. He obviously can’t see what I can feel. The dozens of hands on my legs and waist, pulling me down until I can’t fight anymore. Slowly I let go and take one last, strangled breath before sliding under the surface.

It’s strange: once the water wraps around me, even the rush of it around me sounds like only one word, being whispered in my ear over and over again. Welcome.

I’m drowning.

In my head, I’m screaming. It feels as though I’ve been launched through a pinball machine. Like my body is careening at breakneck speed, being tossed every which way, and I have no control. I try to move my arms in another direction but I’m beaten into submission by a force much more powerful than me. Something jams against my cheek, pushing my head back so far that the bones of my neck grate against one another. I try to force it away, flailing my arms wildly, but then I hit against another hard thing. Everything is rocketing in only one direction, and I have no idea what lies at the very end. I don’t think I’ll find out. I know that before I reach the end, I’ll be dead.

My lungs are beating against my chest, exploding. My heart thuds in my ears. I look up, toward the ripples of sunlight. They’re just a blur now, because I’m moving too fast. I need to get there. Somehow. I reach my hand out, but instead of propelling myself upward, all I do is bring back a handful of soft, mucky stuff, like a tangled mane of hair. Like my mother’s hair. I make another attempt to scramble upward but I find myself just sinking deeper, and the lights above begin to fade with the burning sensation in my lungs.

The last thing that enters my mind is that it’s funny how we try so hard not to be like our parents, because that never works out. I’m going to die here, in a river. Just like her.

Chapter Eight

First there are the whispers.

I did …

What the …

That’s the …

I keep still, listening, but the words never come together to make sense. They’re just words, as if read from a dictionary, phrases that never mean anything. The morning’s biting cold stings my cheeks. I’m still wearing that impossibly uncomfortable wet suit, but instead of being near-frozen, I’m sweating underneath the layers of wool clothes. I open my eyes, and all I see is the gray, sad sky and black, bare branches above me. A large crow glides overhead, cawing ominously.

I’m alive. Amazingly. I must be. If I were dead, my head wouldn’t hurt as much, would it?

I sit up. As I do, my head throbs, begging me to rest, but I push against gravity and straighten. When I’m erect, my hair whips over my eyes. I pull it back, but it’s slimy in places, gritty in others, and knotted like seaweed. Where is my helmet?

The whispering continues, which is odd because I’m alone. But then it changes somehow—was it not whispering but the sound of rushing water? I look around. Water moving everywhere, all around me. No, no, not more water! I want to retch at the sight of it. When I swallow, there’s something thick and gritty in the back of my throat. The water laps at my toes, almost as if it’s trying to touch them, to grab me and pull me back toward it. I’m sitting on a small island right in the middle of the river.

I scan the horizon for cheerful yellow rafts. When we set off, there were dozens. Now I can’t see a one. I search the riverbanks to either side of me, but the only witnesses to my peril are tall pines, bowing to me in the stiff wind. I curl my knees up to my chest and hug them. Where the hell is everyone?

I crane my neck to scan the island, but it’s just brambles, moist sand, pieces of driftwood that have found their way here on the waves. One lone, bare tree with sprawling branches and a trunk the size of a small car sits behind me. It takes up most of the real estate on the island. Other than that, nothing. My backpack is gone. There’s a draft on my back now and I tenderly bring my fingers there, running them over the neoprene. Great. There are slashes all down my wet suit, almost as if I’ve been mauled by a bear. I probe around with my finger and find blood. My hand is covered in blood. I turn around and there’s a small puddle of it under my backside. Suddenly I’m aware of the sting.

Frantic, I search the river again. Nothing. No one. I’m alone, in the middle of the rapids, bleeding. No. This is not good. My heart begins to pound so hard, I can almost hear it.

“Well, look who’s wandering among the living.”

I jump at the voice. Not that it’s scary—it’s just that two minutes ago, when I surveyed my surroundings, I was alone. Or at least I thought I was. The tree, though, has a large trunk, so maybe he was behind it. Yes, of course. Plus, my head hurts, so maybe I have a concussion and am not seeing things clearly. I turn, and a boy is loping toward me, easy, like he hasn’t a care in the world. His light brown hair is falling in his face and he has this sheepish grin, like he’s up to no good.

He sits down beside me and begins to pick at the line of white pebbles left by the tide. Those pearly little pebbles, the damp sand, our feet side by side at the water’s edge—something about this scene gives me an instant shot of déjà vu that almost sends me reeling, like I’m falling through time and space. I catch myself, and by then he’s studying me, that quirky smile melting into amused curiosity. “You talk?”

The voice. It’s unsettling. Something is not quite right about it. It’s an easy drawl, nothing like Justin’s or Hugo’s or that of any of the guys I know, and yet it sounds familiar. Anyone in this predicament, stuck in the middle of a river, would speak with a little bit of urgency. But then again, he’s not the one who’s bleeding.

My lips are so cold they tingle to life when I open them to speak. “I’m … hurt.”

He nods and inspects the wound on my back. “Sure are.”

He reaches out to touch it and I squirm a little when he comes in contact with the wound. “Ouch.”

He doesn’t apologize. “Tore up that little monkey suit of yours, too, huh?”

“It’s a wet suit,” I say miserably. “And a rental. I’ll probably owe them an arm and a leg for it.”

He’s still inspecting it. There isn’t a look of disgust on his face, or horror, so maybe it isn’t that bad? I can feel his fingers stroking the fabric, which is really awkward, so I flinch away just as he says, “For that thing? Wouldn’t trade you a piece of steamin’ horse manure for it.”

I stare at him. Who the hell talks like that? And weirder yet, why does it seem like I’ve heard this all before? “Wait. Do I know you?” I ask, but I already know that’s impossible. He couldn’t have been on the rafting excursion with us. All of the other people were older, and he’s probably no more than twenty. He has a cologne-ad-pretty face with perfect features, just the right amount of stubble, and long eyelashes—a face that’s hard to stop looking at, and even harder to forget. And he’s not wearing a wet suit. In fact, he’s not wearing much at all. Faded, ripped jeans and a worn plaid shirt, open, untucked, and with sleeves rolled up to the elbows. He’s not wearing shoes. No shoes. It can’t be more than forty degrees out today. Even Justin would have a hard time with that. “Aren’t you freezing?”

He laughs. “No on both counts, kid.”

At first I’m like, Yeah, he’s right, I’d remember a dude like him, but the second he calls me “kid,” the feeling hits me stronger than ever. I try to find the connection but my head is throbbing, making thinking impossible. And anyway, it doesn’t matter. We’re in the middle of a river, I’m gushing blood all over the place, and maybe the tide is changing and this little island won’t be here an hour from now. “Look. I’m a little freaked out. I don’t know where I am or where my friends are. You wouldn’t happen to have a boat, would you?” I ask.

He grins at me, a slow grin. Why does he do everything slowly? And of course he doesn’t have a boat. He doesn’t even have shoes.

All right. Think think think. “How did you even get here, if you don’t have a boat?” But I already know the answer. I echo him as he says, “I’m a powerful good swimmer.”

He grins, and that’s my cue to freak out. How did I know that?

“So, wait. I do know you?”

He shakes his head. “Listen, kid, you’re wound up tighter than an eight-day clock. Relax for a minute.”

“Relax!” I start, but then I stop. No, I don’t know him, of course; I just hit my head or something and I’m not thinking straight.

He leans back, digging his palms in the dirt behind him. He’s tall, like Justin; he stretches out with his legs crossed at the ankles in front of him, and his feet touch the water. Unlike me, he doesn’t recoil from the cold of the river. I notice that his toes are a rather pleasing shade of brown. He has a tan. How can a guy in Maine in May have a tan? He doesn’t look like the type to frequent tanning salons; he looks more like Justin in that regard. The manly-man type. But even the manliest of men can end up utterly screwed by nature. Rule number one: Nature always kicks ass.

“Um, look. I can’t relax. You may be a powerful good swimmer, but I’m not. I’m hurt, and freezing, and I’m sure my friends are looking for me, so I need to get back to them. Can you help me?”

“Sure thing.” Then he grimaces. I look down and for the first time I notice he’s holding his arm, limp in front of him.

The blood is all over his hand. My blood? I lean forward. No, there’s a massive gash on the top of his forearm, stretching almost from his elbow to his wrist bone. It’s deep, too; the blood is a dark, thick purple. I gasp. “Oh my God.”

He laughs at me. “It’s nothing. Old war wound.”

He’s off his rocker. It’s fresh. And it’s bleeding everywhere. “No, you need …” I look around but there’s no spare fabric anywhere, and I can’t very well ask him to remove his worn shirt, since it’s probably as thin as paper. Grimacing, I reach down and pull off my water shoes, then remove the outer layer of socks. They’re damp, but they’ll have to do. I wrap the first sock around his arm as a tourniquet. It’s tough to tie because he happens to be kind of muscular there. Then I clamp the other one over the cut. It’s instantly saturated. “We’ve got to get you help.”

He looks at my handiwork. “Thanks, kid. But it’s just fine.”

It’s really not just fine. We’re both bleeding. We’ll probably die here in a puddle of our own blood. “How did you do that, anyway?”

He shrugs. “Don’t remember. Jumping in the water, I guess.”

“To save me? You pulled me out?”

He stares at his arm. “That I did, but … I don’t …” He looks confused, sad. “I don’t remember lots of things.”

“Well, thank you,” I say. My sock is now dripping with blood. Little crimson drops begin to puddle on the sand. “Oh God. That’s really bad. Are you sure you’re okay?”

He laughs. “Unwind, girl. You want to see bad, you should have seen your back.”

“What?” I shriek. Is it possible my wound is as bad? Um, worse? All this time I’ve been sitting here, I’d almost forgotten about it. It didn’t even hurt much. I crane to see my injury, but I can’t make out anything. In fact, I can’t even feel it anymore.

He’s still laughing.

I glare at him. “It’s not that horrible, is it? You were joking? Don’t. Do. That. You freaked me out. I thought I was dying.”

“Unwind, girl. You need to—”

Suddenly thunder begins to rumble in the distance, and I realize that the clouds are black and heavy with rain. Across the river, a thin mist has crawled in, sliding between the trees. My eyes are drawn toward the right bank, where a figure stands, half hidden by the pines. I squint to see, but my head throbs as my eyes struggle to focus in the thickening fog. It’s a large guy, like Justin, but I already know it’s not him. Justin would be trying to find a way to help me. This person is standing still, and it would almost be like a fragment of a photograph if his eyes weren’t trained right on us.

I feel a hand slide into mine, fingers lacing with my own. Next to me, the boy swallows. He’s lost some of his tan. Since he obviously enjoys cold weather, I’d expected his hands to be warm, like Justin’s. But they’re cold, like stone. Unlike stone, though, his fingers quiver slightly. There’s something wrong.

“Who is that?” I whisper.

He sits up, then pulls me to my feet so fast that I gasp in surprise. I’m stunned because it’s the first thing he’s done quickly. That easy smile is gone. I open my mouth to say “Well, now who’s wound up?” but he speaks first, his words clipped and emotionless. “Nobody. Let’s get you out of here. And, Kiandra—”

He grabs hold of my wrist and looks at me with intent, dark eyes. I want to ask him to let me go, I want to ask him how he knows my name, I want to ask him so many things, but the force of his eyes on me has rendered me speechless. Instead, I just nod, under this strange, dizzying spell.

“You have to go home. And don’t you ever come back. It’s too dangerous.”

Whispers again. Just fragments of speech. This time I know they’re senseless, so I don’t bother to listen.

My eyelids sting as I push my eyes open. The sky again, gray and somber. Pine branches above, dulled in the fog. The mist is thicker now, borderline drizzle. My eyelashes are wet.

I feel for my limbs, wiggling my fingers and toes. My fingers ache from the cold, and my feet, in scratchy wool socks, ache, too. My face burns as if from a thousand needle pricks. I sit up, the same familiar pain slamming against my forehead, expecting to see the river on both sides of me. But I’m on the bank.

I turn around, but I’m alone. The boy who saved me is gone, but his voice is ringing in my ears: Don’t you ever come back. It’s too dangerous. What the … Who the heck was he? Hot as hell, but reminding me so eerily of my dad. Great combination.

I struggle to my numb feet and climb the bank, looking for him, for some sign of him, but there is nothing. It was a dream. It has to have been a dream. But all the while, I feel the pressure of his fingers on my back, and I can still hear his voice in my head—it makes me shiver.

No, it was just a dream. Normal people can have very realistic dreams, and that’s all it was.

I climb a little farther, and just as I begin to wonder how I’m going to get back to camp, which must be miles downriver, I see a sign in the brush. I stumble over to it on my useless legs and read: NORTHEAST OUTFITTERS. There’s an arrow pointing down a path, and the familiar rich wood of the cabin peeks from among the pines.

I want to cry from the beauty of it. I want to fall to my knees and thank the heavens. But I also want to be warm, and my legs must want that, too, because before I know what I’m doing, I’ve broken into a run. I racewalk, limping slightly because I can’t feel much of my feet, toward the log building, throw open the doors, and burst into the Outfitters, gasping in relief as the heat rushes to my face. It stings my skin, but it’s a welcome sting. The only thing better would be a nice, hot shower.