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After
I DROP THEplanks off at camp on my way to the snowberries. I stop just long enough to leave them by the rock and feed Bo a couple of jerky treats, since he’s been eyeing my pocket the whole way. I know he hunts on his own, but Dad fed him, too, and I don’t know if he can find enough food to survive by himself. Either I’m going to have to figure out how to feed us both or he’s going to have to start hunting on his own more.
We set off north, Bo trotting along beside me. The sun trails spots over his dark coat and shimmers across lingering raindrops.
Bo freezes. Fear shoots through me, cold and sudden, but this isn’t the stock-still almost-snarl of when danger is close by. He looks intent... and eager. I take the rifle in hand and point it in the direction he’s looking. “What is it?” I whisper.
A rabbit bursts out of the bushes. I yank on the trigger, more out of instinct and surprise than on purpose. The rifle cracks and jerks in my hands, and I almost fall backward at the impact, my weight dropping back on my bad leg. I don’t even come close to hitting the rabbit. Quickly I work the mechanism to feed another round into the chamber and sweep the gun after the fleeing rabbit. I pull the trigger again. Dirt sprays up a good eight feet from the rabbit’s butt, and then it’s gone.
Bo sits and looks up at me in mute disappointment. “I might need to do some target practice,” I say with a sigh. I check the rifle. I have three shots left, and all the ammunition is back at the rock. How long will it last? The box is full, but I don’t think I’ll have much for target practice. I’ll just have to make that practice useful, and pick a target that can feed me.
I’m imagining hunting with Bo, roasting rabbits over the fire, when I step out of the tree line and into the open air. Hilly land rolls out away from us, the trees resuming maybe a quarter mile away. And every one of those hills is spangled with low-growing bushes, every one of those bursting with pale berries.
I let out a whoop that comes out more like a whimper and hurry forward. I start up the crest of the first low hill—and a huge black shape comes trundling up the other side. Bear. I freeze. The bear freezes. I can see the fur on its muzzle, the bit of froth at the corner of its mouth. It has to weigh four times as much as I do. It starts to rise on its hind legs. I stumble back.
Bo gives me an irritated look and lunges forward, barking furiously. The bear drops to all fours and hightails it in the other direction quicker than I can blink. It has a rolling run, almost comical, and I stifle a laugh as it hoofs its way toward the far tree line.
“Rolly!” I declare. Bo gives me a no, duh look.
Look at him skeeedaddle, Griff says in my memory, and my smile fades into a pang of loneliness. I bite my lip. No time for that now, no room for it. The sun’s slid past its peak. The days are long, but the evenings cold, and I want to get that fire going soon.
I kneel down to start picking berries, shuffling along from bush to bush. I eat while I pick, but I make myself put three in the bag for every one I pop in my mouth. Still, by the time my back is aching so much I have to stop, I feel almost full for the first time in days.
I push myself up with the help of the walking stick and start back. I’m barely past the tree line when I spot a familiar cluster of leaves. “Hey, I know that one,” I say to Bo. “Wild cucumber. Dad showed me.”
Bo doesn’t look impressed. I bend and pluck the cucumber. The root—the edible part—is just a little lightning bolt of green, maybe an inch and a half long, but I shake the dirt off and bite it clean off its stem. It’s fresh and crisp and another few calories to keep me from starving, but the flavor’s faded before I’ve gone two steps. There are more, though, everywhere now that I know to look, and I stop here and there to pick them. Save three, eat one.
As I tuck them into the smiling kitty backpack, I find myself wishing Griff was here so I could give him a proper thank-you. I hadn’t exactly been grateful when he gave me the dumb thing, but if it hadn’t been for the backpack, I don’t think I would have thought to run back to the cabin before it burned to the ground. I’d only gone back because I couldn’t risk them finding it, and if I hadn’t gone back, I’d have nothing now.
Tomorrow, I decide, I’m going to get the rest of the planks pulled down, and then I’ll go fishing. But I also have to make my shelter. I bite my lip. Which is more important? It hasn’t been too cold at night, with Bo and the fire. And the sooner I figure out how to get food regularly, the better. So I’ll go fishing.
