Juneau didn’t need to say it. I know what she was thinking. She doesn’t want me along because she knows—we know—that if it comes down to fighting in the desert, instead of using the truck for surveillance and escape, I will be a liability.
Even if I always knew that I wasn’t Juneau’s equal, the fact that my incompetence is so insurmountable that she left me behind just confirms my utter lameness. I stop these thoughts in their tracks. I’m not utterly lame, I tell myself. I am exponentially less lame then a few weeks ago; Juneau said it herself. I can help her. I know I can. She needs me. I won’t let her push me away just to protect me.
I pace the clearing, debating what to do. The sun is shining in through the trees at an angle, well up above the horizon. When did Juneau say the sun rose? Six a.m.? And if the sun is directly overhead at noon, then I guess it’s around ten in the morning. Juneau’s probably been gone since dawn, if not earlier. Even if I ignore her request and follow her, it will be impossible to catch up with her at this point.
I hold my head in my hands, squeezing hard, and let out a roar of frustration. What do I do? Can Juneau really free her clan by herself, or is she walking into a trap? What can I actually do to help? I can’t just sit around and wait. But if I go after her, I could be a detriment: either slow her down or get her captured.
I head to the top of the mountain, ignoring the branches that whip painfully against my arms, the brambles that poke me through my jeans. And when I reach the crest, I find a rocky outcrop and sit down, surveying the land spread before me like a giant Western movie set. The woods thin out gradually as the land levels into foothills, until there are no more trees—only a dry brownish-green pastureland that quickly turns into desert scrub. Deer-type animals graze peacefully in the distance. It would look like they were living in some kind of untouched-by-civilization Disneyesque utopia, if it weren’t for the twenty-foot fence sectioning off the ranch.
As I sit, my anger and shame melt away and my thoughts become clearer. What are my options? Stay or leave. And if I leave, I’ll have to find a plan of my own since I can’t catch up with Juneau.
Think about what advantages nature gives us, I hear her say. What advantages do I have? Although I can shoot a tree, I’ve never aimed at a moving target. And although I can build a fire, I’m not a wilderness survivalist like her. But I have one advantage she doesn’t know about: I can Read. At least, I did it once. And I am determined to find out what that means. To add it to my short list of skills.
I stand and let the wind whip my hair around, close my eyes and breathe in the pure mountain air. I can be one with nature, I think. And then I open my eyes and laugh. Like hell I can. I’ll let Juneau be one with nature. I’ll just be myself.
Back at the campsite, I rifle through our supplies. Juneau left the tent and bedding, the cooking equipment, flashlights and dishes, and most of the food. It looks like she took the backpack, most of the water, and some food. The knife and her crossbow are gone.
My crossbow, however, lies where I left it last night by the fire. I decide to fit in one last practice with a tree before potentially having to aim it at live targets. At the edge of the clearing, I cock the bowstring and load a bolt into the tiller, like Juneau showed me yesterday. Pulling the crossbow up to my chin, I eye a tree a few yards away with a large, round knot about halfway up. Aiming for the knot, I squeeze the trigger and launch a bolt in its direction. Then one after another, I cock and load and fire, until all six of the arrows are embedded in the tree, although unfortunately nowhere near the knot.
At least I’m getting faster at loading, I think, as I gather the bolts and go back to my starting position. But I’m still not a sharpshooter like Juneau. Sometimes I’m good, sometimes I’m way off. I have no consistency, and don’t understand what’s tripping me up.
Too bad it’s not a video game, I muse, and suddenly an idea comes to mind. I’m good at video games. Really good. Shooting in real life must be mainly a matter of hand-eye coordination, after you’ve gotten used to the weight and feel of the weapon. What if I just pretend I’m in a video game? Forget that I’m in the woods, out of my element, and pretend I’m in the comfort of my living room, all conditions under my control.
I let everything melt away, the sounds of the woods, the smell of dirt and pine. It’s just me, the tree, and the crossbow. I breathe out slowly and squeeze the trigger. The bolt flies across the clearing and lodges firmly into the knot.
I whoop and dance around a bit before calming down and trying again. I put myself in the zone, aim, and fire. Another bull’s-eye.
This is what I needed. If I make the environment my own, I can manipulate it with confidence. It makes perfect sense.