Dan Versus Nature (36 page)

I try to get to my feet, but I can’t move — can hardly get air into my lungs.

Moments later everyone’s by my side, helping me to my feet and cheering like I’ve just won the Indy 500. I want to smile, to wave off the praise like it was nothing — like I do this sort of thing all the time.

Instead, I fold over and hurl a surge of partially digested salmon and field greens all over everyone’s feet.

I sleep like a corpse. There are no dreams. No thoughts. Nothing.

When I wake the next day, it’s actually a surprise: I feel like I’ve been resurrected from the dead. My mouth tastes chalky and sour, my eyes are crusty, and my head feels like it’s wrapped in cotton. It takes me a long time to get my bearings, to remember where I am and all that’s happened.

I crawl from the empty hut, the early morning light stinging my eyes. Penelope and Charlie are restocking the signal fire while Hank, Max, and Barbara are stretching the rainbow parachute out on the beach as wide as they can, securing the edges with large stones so it doesn’t blow away.

“Should we write a message on it?” Barbara asks. “Help or something?”

“I’ll do it,” I say. I walk to the campfire and grab a burnt stick. I’m wearing an extra pair of Max’s shorts and one of Barbara’s pink T-shirts that reads
KISS ME, I
’
M BOOTYLICIOUS
— if Erin could see me now . . .

I strap on the baby carrier that Clint made me out of the parachute harness and some vines, Baby Robbie cooing as I tromp across the sand.

Barbara turns to Max. “Care to join me in a little more harvesting?” she asks.

Max gives her a knowing wink. “I think I can muster up the energy for bit of reaping.”

The two of them laugh, grasp hands, and bound off into the woods together, ensuring that I will go nowhere near the forest for the next two hours.

“I’ll see if I can catch us some lunch,” Hank says, turning and limping back to our hut.

I climb into the middle of the parachute and use the burnt end of the stick to write SOS in giant letters. Then I draw a huge Werebear with snarling teeth and razor-sharp claws underneath — so whoever sees this knows we’re not kidding.

“I like it,” Clint says, giving me a big smile. I crawl off the parachute, and Clint offers me a hand up.

“I’m going to do a little scavenger hunt,” he says. “See if anything of use survived the plane crash. Wanna come?”

“Thanks . . .” I say, glancing over at Hank as he wades into the lake. “But I think I’m going to take Hank up on that fishing lesson.”

Clint nods. “Sounds like a lot more fun. And a much better use of your time. Can’t imagine I’m going to find much out there.”

Clint shuffles off.

I stand there, waiting — for what, I don’t know. For my legs to carry me forward. For this weird shyness to dissipate. What if Hank is pissed at me? What if he hates my guts and tells me to get lost?

But I’m done being a coward, and so I force myself to move.

“Hey,” I say, when I reach the water’s edge. “Can I . . . Could you teach me how you do that?”

Hank smiles big. “Sure thing, bud,” he says. “Let’s get a pole set up for you.”

He joins me on land, and we find the perfect branch: a live one with good bend. We gather up some strong vines for the line and a thorny twig to use for my hook. Hank baits the twig with a small piece of salmon skin.

“That should do just fine,” he says, admiring our work. “Now brace yourself. The water’s pretty icy.”

I take a deep breath and we wade together into the lake. The cold water burns my toes, sending a chill rocketing up my spine.

Hank stands beside me. He shows me how to hold the fishing rod with two hands. How to cast the line and how to tug it gently so the hook dances under the water, enticing the fish.

“That’s right, good,” Hank says as I jiggle my fishing pole.

“It’s really cool that you know how to do this,” I acknowledge, nodding at our makeshift supplies.

“Thanks,” Hank says. “Of course, this is nothing compared to scaring off killer bears.”

“Yeah,” I say, glancing down, my face flushing as I remember him screaming at me not to charge the bear. “I-I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you. It just — it looked like the bear was going to catch up to us, and it was my fault he was after us, so I knew I had to do something —”

Hank reaches over and adjusts my hands on the fishing pole. “All I care about is that you’re OK,” he says. “Though, I’m not ashamed to admit that a little bit of pee escaped me when you ran toward that animal.”

I laugh.

“I mean, your mom may — or may not — forgive me for misleading her about my hunting skills,” Hank says. “But she would never forgive me if I let you get eaten by a bear.” He looks at me, his eyes filling with tears. “That was the scariest moment of my life — watching you take on that animal.” He blinks and shakes his head, like he’s trying to dislodge the memory.

I blink, too, and look away. We stand there for a bit, the two of us, fishing together in silence. It feels nice. Peaceful. Good.

“You think you can ever forgive me?” I ask, breaking the silence.

“For scaring the crap out of me?” Hank says.

“For everything. I was wrong about you. I didn’t even give you a chance. I’m really sorry. I was so convinced that you’d turn out to be a jerk that I tried everything I could think of to get you to act like one. Only you never did. Because you’re
not
a jerk. In fact”— I glance at him —“you’re the best boyfriend that Mom has ever had.” I shrug. “Of course, that’s not exactly saying a whole lot. But still, I’m really sorry for all the crap I pulled and . . . I don’t want you to go. I want you to marry Mom.”

I look over at him, a sad smile tugging the corner of his mouth.

“I get it, Dan,” Hank says. “Believe me, if anyone understands dad challenges, it’s me. I accept your apology — if you accept mine.”

“Oh my God, yes, for sure,” I blurt, relief flooding me.

Hank laughs. “Great. Now let’s just hope your mother forgives me.”

“You don’t have to tell her,” I say. “About you not being a hunter, I mean. I won’t say anything. She never has to find out.”

Hank smiles. “That’s nice of you, Dan, but I am going to tell her. I can’t go on pretending to be someone I’m not. Your mom deserves better than that. Heck, she probably deserves better than me.” He glances at me. “If she
does
still want to marry me once she knows the truth, though, will you still be my best man?”

I nod, feeling my chest tighten. “If you’ll still have me.”

“Nothing would make me happier,” he says. “Of course, a best man needs to make sure everyone’s on schedule. Which means you’re going to need something”— he unclips his giant man-watch from his wrist —“to keep the time.” Hank holds the watch out to me.

I shake my head and swallow. “No way, I couldn’t . . .”

“I’d really like you to have it.”

I reach out and take it from him. I stare down at the clear cobalt-blue face, the second hand gliding smoothly around the dial.

Hank clears his throat. “I know it’s not any sort of replacement . . . for what you lost or anything . . .”

“No,” I say, my eyes getting hot, my throat scratchy. “It’s way better.”

And not just because it works.

I slide it over my hand and clip the latch, feeling the weight of it on my wrist.

It feels solid.

Like something that’ll last.

We fish until our legs go numb but catch nothing.

No plane comes that day.

Or the next.

Or the next.

Hank and I go to the lake each morning, only ever catching enough fish to keep us fed but not enough to keep us full. Charlie and Penelope tend the fires and cook. Clint keeps the shelter sturdy and solid. Occasionally he wanders off to check for supplies from his obliterated plane, but so far he’s found only scrap metal.

And Max and Barbara disappear into the bush every day, returning hours later with armfuls of greens and big smiles.

Three days after we were supposed to have returned home, we hear the sound of an engine in the distance. We shout and race around, shielding our eyes and trying to spot the plane. But it must be flying over another part of the wilderness, because we never do see it.

The next day we hear the plane again, but again we don’t catch sight of it.

And then we hear nothing.

And nothing.

And nothing.

It’s been seven days since we set the first signal fire, and though no one is saying it, I can tell that everyone is starting to lose hope.

For a short time — after the bear was gone and we’d heard that first plane — it felt kind of like an adventure. We weren’t stranded with no hope of rescue, like Robinson Crusoe or Oliver Queen. We worked as a team and got into a rhythm, fishing and hunting and gathering roughage and kindling during the day and telling stories over the campfire at night. Probably the sort of thing Mom had pictured from the get-go.

But now food is getting harder to come by.

And it’s been four days since we heard a plane.

And tempers are starting to flare.

I spend most of my time fishing with Hank, drawing in my mangled sketchbook, and tending to the newly vocal Baby Robbie.

“I’ve got it,” Charlie says, sitting down next to me as I rock back and forth, snuggling and feeding the doll inside the makeshift carrier.

“Got what?” I ask.

“The solution to the Baby-Real-A-Lot dilemma — you know, how to explain his many upgrades.” He grins like the Cheshire cat and pushes his glasses up on his nose. “It came to me as I was trying to squeeze the last dregs of power from my camera’s battery by overriding its OS. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before.”

I’m tempted to tell him that the last thing in the world I’m worried about is my Life Skills grade. But instead I force a smile and say, “OK. What do you got?”

“A simple e-mail to Ms. Drizzler,” Charlie says. “I can make it appear to be from InfantWorks with the subject ‘Automatic Software Update.’ Something to the effect of this being version four-point-oh-one-two or some such. Pushed out to all of the units via Wi-Fi, adding improvements to the doll’s operating system in an effort to make the baby-rearing experience more realistic than ever, blah, blah, blah. Very official, unverifiable, the whole nine yards.”

“That’s a great idea, Charlie,” I say brightly. “You think she’ll buy it?”

“Why not?” he says. “If your phone and iPad and electric toothbrush can be updated, why not a computerized doll?”

“Good point,” I say, pulling the bottle from the baby’s pursing lips.

“Done, done,” Baby Robbie coos. “I sleepy.”

Charlie looks over at the doll. “I might have to fix that scratchy humming noise it makes when it talks, though.”

I look down at Robbie. “What noise?”

“It’s probably just a loose wire or something. Sounds like a dishwasher on dry cycle.”

I lower my ear toward the doll. “I don’t hear anything.”

And then I do.

A buzzing noise. A low drone. But it’s not coming from Baby Robbie.

I look up into the sky. “It’s not the doll,” I say. “There!” I point.

A plane flies high overhead.

Charlie scrambles to his feet. “Holy crap, is that —?”

Everyone seems to see it at once.

“The parachute!” Clint shouts from the shore. “Everybody! Now!”

The seven of us — eight, if you count Baby Robbie in his carrier — rush over to the parachute, each grabbing an edge.

And we shake it.

We wave it.

We billow it like crazy —

Until the red search-and-rescue plane starts to descend toward the lake.