I feel as though I’ve just scored a point. I read a word; I’m winning this Challenge.
“Mae…”
I want to figure out the message before I get too close, just to say I did. The second word starts with a T. I bet the word is “trespassing.” A sinuous middle increases my confidence. The second line is harder. A V-word to start. “Violators,” must be.
Brennan grabs my arm. “Mae, stop,” he says, frantic.
And then the text clicks into place and I read the full message:
NO TRESPASSING.
VIOLATORS WILL BE GUTTED.
“Gutted?” I say, lowering the lens. “That’s a bit much.” And yet I feel my body constricting, wanting to hide. I can barely remember how it feels to be held by someone I love, but I have no trouble imagining the sensation of a blade ripping into my abdomen. The fire, a moment of frozen time, then spilling outward. I imagine steam rising as my warm guts hit the cool air. Then I imagine myself as the one doing the gutting.
“Let’s go,” says Brennan, nodding back the way we came.
The only way out of a Challenge is to say the words, to quit.
“We’ll go around, Mae.”
Gutted, I think. The sign is so extreme, so ridiculous. It’s like the flyer, meant for the viewing audience, not for me.
With the thought, a sense of extreme unimportance overwhelms me. This show isn’t about me. It’s not about the other contestants. It’s about the world we’ve entered. We’re bit players, our purpose one of entertainment, not enlightenment. I’ve been thinking about this whole experience the wrong way—I’m not here because I’m interesting or because I’m scared of having kids, I’m simply an accent on their creation. No one cares if I make it to the end. All they care about is that the viewers watch to the end.
I put the lens back into my pocket and stride forward.
“Mae!”
This is the game I agreed to play.
“Don’t!” His hand is on my arm again, but he’s not pulling. “Please.”
Yes, I think. This feels right. I bet Cooper is on the other side of that sign, waiting for me. Maybe one of the others. Probably one of the others. Complication comes in threes: love triangles, third wheels, the trinity.
I’m close enough now that I can read the sign without my lens; knowing what it says helps. Brennan is still with me, so I must be going the right way, no matter what he says. Will Cooper have a shadow too? A pouty white girl? Maybe the Asian kid—what was his name?—will be the third; that’d be fitting, a nice TV-friendly diversity. Or Randy, for a dash of drama? I doubt there will be another woman. There’s no way Heather’s made it this far, and Sofia—well, Sofia’s a possibility.
I reach the downed tree. I’m standing next to the banner. Is this a starting line or a finishing line? I don’t know, but I know it’s something. I reach forward. Touching the tree is going to be a trigger. For what, I don’t know. Bells and whistles, maybe, or flashing lights.
My hand slips into the blur, finds a solid branch.
Sirens don’t erupt. Signal flares don’t shoot into the sky. The earth doesn’t shake. The woods are unchanged.
Disappointment thrums through me. I was so certain this moment mattered.
It’s not the first time I’ve been wrong.
I climb over the tree, then take out my lens and scan the road ahead. It’s clear. Brennan hops down next to me on the pavement.
“Well,” I say. “We still have our guts.”
“Shh,” he whispers. He’s curled like a thief. “I heard about this kind of thing.”
I didn’t listen closely to his story, but I’m pretty sure this is a contradiction. “I thought you didn’t see anyone after leaving your church.” I speak at a normal volume and he shushes me again. “Fine,” I whisper.
“I met a few, at first,” he tells me. “They were always sick.”
That’s a fair revision, I think. And I have to admit, his worry is contagious. Are we about to meet my marauders? I creep forward and keep my lens in my palm, ready. As we advance, Brennan’s gaze darts from side to side.
I wonder how I’m being portrayed now. I know what my role was when we started. I was the earnest animal lover, always cheerful and up for a Challenge. But now? Will they cast me as off my rocker? Probably not; that’s Randy’s role, with his stupid gold cross and his tales of possessed toddlers. But whoever I am now, I’m no longer who I was.
I wonder if I can even do it anymore, be that person grinning until her cheeks ache. It was exhausting, as exhausting as this endless trekking, in its own way.
Give it a try.
Well, why not?
I look at Brennan and smile. I summon my most chipper voice and say, “Some weather we’re having, huh?” My stomach turns; being cheerful hurts.
He just looks at me, eyebrows raised. I drop the painful smile and look away. What if I can never be that person again? Not the exaggeration of myself I put on for the show, but the person I really was. The person I worked so hard to become after leaving my mother’s sour home. I hate the idea of being this miserable for the rest of my life. But I’ll readjust. Once this is over. I have to. My husband will help. As soon as I see him again, all this misery will be banished. This experience will become what it was meant to be—one last adventure. A story to tell. We’ll adopt the wacky-looking greyhound of our dreams, toss our condom supply in the trash, make a small family. I’ll do it, even if I’m not ready, because you can’t be ready for everything and sometimes overthinking a challenge makes overcoming it impossible and I am not my mother. Soon these hardships will be far enough in the past that I’ll be able to pretend I had fun here. Or maybe being pregnant will be so awful this will seem like a vacation. I read a book before I left that makes that seem possible, with its talk of grape-sized hemorrhoids and crusty gum growths.
Is that why I haven’t had my period yet?
No. I’m not pregnant. I know I’m not pregnant. This is my body’s reaction to physical stress—all this hiking, and how long did I go without eating when I was sick?
But. What if?
My last period was a week or so before I left for the show. We had sex after that, but with protection—I’ve never been on the pill; sex without a condom is nigh inconceivable to me—but maybe something went wrong. Maybe after all these years something finally went wrong.
I remember being so scared that I’d get my period while here, anticipating it, fearing a cameraman would get something incriminating on film. As if menstruation were shameful. As if it were a choice. Now I just want it to happen so I can know, so I can be certain of something.
I think of the doll in the cabin. Its sunken, spotty face. Its mechanical kitten cries.
I’m not pregnant.
I want to think about something else. I need to think about something else.
“So, what’s with the zebra print?” I ask Brennan.
“Shh!”
I forgot we were whispering. I mouth an apology, just to get him talking.
It works. After a moment he says, so quietly, “Reminds me of Aiden.”
The brother. I don’t remember if he’s supposed to be dead or alive. Wait—Brennan said something about calling him, about phones not working. He doesn’t know. “If you survived, he might have too,” I try. “Immunity could be genetic.”
“My mom didn’t survive.”
“What about your dad?”
He shrugs. “He was in the Army. Died when I was little.”
I’m trying to decide what to say next when a loud snap to our left interrupts my thoughts. I pivot toward the sound; Brennan jumps behind me. Hurriedly, I find my lens and hold it to my eye. I close my other eye and scan the woods.
This is it, I think. Everything is about to change.
A flash of white, a curled tan body on stiltlike legs, big dumb eyes. An eastern white-tailed frozen in our presence. I take a step toward it and the ice cracks. The deer scrambles over a log, then bounds away, its snowy tail erect.
“What was that?” asks Brennan, voice trembling.