When I get to the cabin, it is empty. The ghost of his presence is the only thing lingering behind. His scent on the couch; the soap in the bathroom he probably forgot to pack with him. The food on the kitchen counter has been trifled with; only a portion of it is gone, as well as half of the camping equipment from the store.
But his clothes, his bags, his heart—gone.
I fiddle with the weather radio, but it discusses high pressure and sunshine. Not soothing.
I take the rock cairns from my bedroom and remake them, but their balance doesn’t pacify me the way they always have before.
I know what Mother is thinking. It’s better this way. Now I have November to myself. I have the cabin. Father will be back December 1 so we can hide on the island together until spring. He will bring with him packages and supplies to keep himself fed and taken care of. As for me, when I’ve tried not to kill in Novembers past, I’ve become wilder in some ways. Father says “less predictable,” which, for a creature like me, is simple chaos. But maybe I can control this.
There is only one way to know.
I go to the bedroom and take my nightgown off. In the drawer, I pick out the things that Father bought for me. Jeans, a little too tight, but they’re the only ones that fit me. A camisole, waffled long underwear, and a flannel button-down on top. Two pairs of wool socks.
I rush around the cabin, whose rafters practically hum with excitement at my activity. It’s used to having me sit for hours, meditating on a piece of lint, organizing cairns. Now I’m sweeping all the leftover camp food into a backpack. I stuff other things in there, like scissors and a fish fillet knife sheathed in a kitchen towel. I bring the big flashlight, Father’s store of batteries, soap, the remaining water purifier, and every box of matches in the kitchen drawers. Father has a tent rolled up in a sleeve of nylon, and I attach it and a sleeping bag to the back of the backpack.
I try to think like Father. What would he do to care for me? I make one last trip to the bathroom and put in toilet paper and the bottle of castile soap, and open the medicine cabinet. The bottles in there make my nose curl from their bitterness. There are so many that Father has needed—for pain that I never feel, for infections that I never get, for sleeplessness that doesn’t bother me. I scoop them up and add them to the bag, too. I put in four tubes of toothpaste and several toothbrushes.
Finally, I root out the radio from its nest by the fireplace. My good friend. It has never been outside these walls, and I wonder what needs it has. Perhaps like other cared objects, like human babies, it might need clothes. I swaddle it in a towel before packing it safely.
At the door, I put on Father’s warmest coat, three hats, two scarves, and hiking boots. The enormously heavy pack goes on my back, and I pause before leaving. The wind hisses from the outside. I ignore it.
I sniff the air, deciding on my path. I’ll find Hector. And we’ll go as far to the interior of the island as we can, away from the water. Mother will be quieter there, and her influence dulled. It will be much harder to tempt me back into the water this way, and I can concentrate on Hector. We’ve had a conversation that’s only just begun. And I’m finding myself anxious, for the first time in my life, to finish it.
The cabin beams at me. It will be lonely without human occupancy, but the door lightly bumps my lumpy backside, as if to say, Truly, the boy doesn’t understand what you’ve done. What you meant to do. Go fetch him, Anda.
So I go.
Chapter Thirty-Three
HECTOR
I take the Greenstone Ridge Trail toward the other end of the island, but I feel so awful that I can barely manage two miles before I have to stop and camp. I’ve already hiked close to six miles since this morning. I’ve eaten nothing all day. I almost died in the lake. My head is pounding, I’m dizzy and shivering, and my throat feels like I ate a dozen razor blades. I don’t know how much more I can take today.
Just off the trail, there’s marshland that’s too wet to camp in. I look warily up at the gray skies darkening from the coming twilight. If Anda were going to follow me, she’d have found me by now. I’m glad she hasn’t. I’ve tried not to think about her, and that dead guy, but it’s impossible. Finally, I find a little area on a rise that should do.
The ground is still wet and it’s going to make me miserable, because I don’t have a tent. The next formal camping ground is miles away. There might be wooden shelters there that would keep me off the ground, but I’m too exhausted to take another step. I just pray that it doesn’t rain tonight.
The wood and sticks around me are drenched. I won’t be able to make the roaring fire that my chilled body is desperate for. My hands shake when I set up the tiny camping stove tripod and light the white fuel underneath. I have to start over again when the whole thing falls because one of its tripod legs bent in my bag. The fuel canister spills half its contents onto the mossy ground.
Great.
I try again. This time, it’s stable. I put my hands around the flickering bluish-orange flame. It’s warm, but I need an oven to get warm, not this tiny stove. I take some water and cook up a packet of freeze-dried chili mac n’ cheese. It smells vaguely sour, like rotten cheese and old feet. I’m not hungry, but I have to try to eat.
When it’s done cooking, I take a taste. It’s actually not that bad, but it’s not good, either. I’ve eaten about half of it when I puke again.
This is not good.
If I can’t keep food down, I’ll get sicker. I can tell my temperature is higher because I’m shivering like a wet dog. I knew when I came to this island, there might be a chance I’d freeze to death, but not like this. There’s some Tylenol in my bag, and I pop that.
I get into my sleeping bag, boots and all, ten feet away from the messy, splattered pile of Hector puke. My teeth bang against each other like saved pennies in a jar. My mind is in a million places at once. What if I don’t make it to Rock Harbor, the most likely place I’ll find more supplies? What if Anda finds me and decides to drag me into the lake and finish me off? What if my uncle is out there right now, searching for me with the police?
I can’t go back.
I refuse.
I need to focus. I need to shut everything out.
The knife is still at my waistband, and I unsheathe it after a few fumbling attempts. Luckily, I don’t need steady hands for this. Good thing, since both my arms are trembling from the effort. My heart races in anticipation. I touch the blade to my left arm, near my oldest cigarette burns.
The pain is white-hot before it turns to a pulsating burn. My heart goes so fast that my eyes blur. The line of red on skin becomes harder to focus on. The knife drops to the damp soil next to me.
There is nothing but the pain.
It is a relief to have nothing but this one pure thing.
Chapter Thirty-Four
ANDA