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He winces.
“I fell, and my ankle’s twisted. But it’s not broken,” Tara finishes matter-of-factly. She seems to have a good, clear head on her shoulders. “It just hurts to walk.”
“Yeah, so we looked for a place to wait where it wasn’t so wet and animals couldn’t find us,” Eli adds. “We were okay, Dad. We brought snacks and drinks and we’re barely even hungry, just cold. I had my big jacket so we were wrapped up in that.”
That’s when I realize Tara’s lying on the big old Army green weatherproof jacket I used to wear on fishing boats. Eli loved it, he always said it looked like, so dystopian-punk, so I’d let him have it even though you could fit his entire body into one sleeve.
Now, I’m glad I fed his little obsession.
Looks like they’ve been using it for ground cover and a blanket with his backpack settled at the top for a pillow.
“I knew you’d come,” Eli says with certainty, looking up at me with his eyes shining. “I knew we just had to stay calm and wait.”
Nothing wrecks you like knowing your kid has that much faith in you.
Like knowing he trusts you to protect him. To find him. To do anything to keep him safe.
I’m so damned glad I didn’t break Eli’s faith today.
I’m so damned glad I found him.
Found them both.
Swallowing the tension in my throat, I reach in, offering Tara my hand. “C’mon. Let’s get you two back into town so the doctor can get a look, and then we’ll get a hot meal into you and some proper rest.”
Tara holds out both arms to me and lets me scoop her up.
I brace my knees and settle her on one shoulder, waiting for Eli to gather his things and stuff them in his bag before I scoop him up, too. He perches easily on my other shoulder.
What can I say?
Sometimes being as big as an adolescent polar bear has its benefits.
Eli lets out a little yelp as I rise, clutching at my head, while Tara keeps her poise like a queen.
I can’t help chuckling and mutter, “Watch your heads, guys.”
We turn, ducking through the scraggly branches and trudge back toward the trailhead where I know the whole team will be waiting to cheer our arrival.
“Hey, Dad?” Eli asks tentatively, shaking out his jacket and wrapping it around him, me, and Tara, forming a makeshift umbrella between them to shield my head from the rain.
“Yeah, polecat?”
“You’re...you’re not mad at me?” He doesn’t even hiss at me not to call him that this time.
I grin like a fool.
“Nah, son. Not mad at all.” I give his hip a squeeze where I’ve got a grip on him to keep him balanced. “Just happy you’re safe. You ended up in a rotten situation when your phones didn’t work, and you did the smartest thing you could. You kept your heads on. You stayed put, you stayed safe, and you looked out for each other.” I squeeze my son again to drive the words home. “I’m proud of you both. You’re growing up fast.”
Eli lets out a choked sniffle, and it’s not hard to tell he’s using the rain to hide his tears.
He’s such a good boy.
I really am proud of him, but more than anything, I’m happy as hell to have my family back together.
Even if there’s an ache that says it’s still missing a crucial piece.
Yeah, when I get back, me and Fliss need to talk.
I need to get over my idiotic fears that every woman who comes near me might hurt my son.
That never happened here. None of it was her fault. I let my worst nightmares have free rein.
I just hope she’s okay and I haven’t torn up her heart too bad when I was piss-scared for Eli’s safety.
“Mr. Charter?” Tara asks.
“Yeah, kidlet?”
“...why do you call Eli ‘polecat?’”
Eli stiffens on my shoulder.
“Dad, no,” he whispers.
I grin, angling my head to see him.
“You really don’t want me to tell her? It’s a cute story.”
“Dad! I’m not cute!”
Tara pouts—and it’s deliberate enough that I can already tell she’s learned how to be a little heartbreaker.
“I think you are,” she says. “I want to hear a cute story about Eli.”
“Oh, God.” He groans, then smacks a hand into his face, probably to hide that burning red blush racing up to his scalp like a thermometer. “...whatever, but I’m not telling it.”
I bite back my laugh.
My son’s such a goner.
I’m thinking this story might be the perfect comic relief right now, and I don’t care if I sound like a soppy dad.
Not with how happy I am to have them in my arms, safe and sound and on our way back to civilization, a slow steady march where I’m ever mindful of the slippery mud.
“When Eli was five, he climbed trees like a cat,” I say, a grin plastered to my face. “Everybody was always begging him to come down because he’d get up just high enough where we couldn’t reach, and then he’d smile down, giggling like it was the world’s funniest joke while we were panicking. Little brat.”
