When Giants Burn, page 12
“Oh, joy,” Hayes mutters. He copies my movements with a sigh and then leans back on his haunches.
I ignore him. “And then if it doesn’t fill our mouths with hives after another fifteen minutes, we can eat some.”
“And we won’t get sick?”
“Not necessarily, but we shouldn’t die. It’s called a sensitivity test.”
Hayes groans but rubs more grass into his arm. His groan turns into a yelp, and he jumps to his feet. He shakes his hand, throwing off a few dozen black ants. The grass he yanked must’ve been right over a hill of them. He says a bad word and scowls at me when I cheer.
“Settle down!” I say. “This is an awesome discovery.” I pinch one of the ants and pop it into my mouth, crunching down. “A snack we don’t have to wait to eat!”
“You’re disgusting,” Hayes says after blinking at me for a solid three seconds, enough time for me to nab four more ants.
“Mmm!” I say with a grin.
19 HAYES
Here’s something I never wanted to know: ants taste like lemonade mix.
In fact, Gerty throws a few into the flask. She says it’ll counteract the iodine taste a little. “And add interesting texture.” I wonder if, when we crashed, she got knocked in the head despite the helmet.
Munching on handfuls of ants doesn’t fill a belly, but it’s better than not eating anything. My mouth goes from feeling like it’s stuffed with an old sock to feeling like I sucked on citrus coffee grounds. The grass hasn’t made either of our arms or mouths itchy, but it takes a long time to chew into something we can swallow. It’s a little more filling than the ants.
Finally Gerty says it’s safe to drink the water. I gulp three huge swallows. It’s cold and wet, and that more than makes up for the metal-tinged mud flavor. Gerty grabs the flask from me and downs some of her own. Then she refills the flask and adds the drops.
“Should we wait here?” I ask. The sun never really came out today, but it looks like soon it will be evening. I hate the idea of spending another night outside. An owl hoots in the distance, but it’s eerily quiet. Too quiet for woods, I think.
Gerty chews her lip. “We probably should wait another half hour. Then we can drink this,” she says, raising the flask, “and refill it.”
I nod, already thirsty again, but my stomach doesn’t feel quite as empty thanks to the ants. If only they had been bigger; I wouldn’t have had to eat so many. “Look!” I cheer as a cricket hops between us.
“Stop!” Gerty calls as I swipe it up and pop it into my mouth. Whatever, she can find her own bug. She grimaces as I crunch down. And then I try not to throw up all my ants and grass.
Here’s something else I never wanted to know: crickets taste like pee and dirt. Even worse? They’re crunchy on the outside and gooey—very gooey—on the inside.
“I tried to warn you,” Gerty says as she sinks beside me.
A half hour is a long time to wait when your mouth is filled with cricket goo.
* * *
“Do you know where we’re going?” I ask a few hours later. I’ve been really tired before—after running a mile in gym class and then playing football at recess. And I’ve been scared—that first night in the group home, wondering if Mom was okay; all those times she was in fires and no one told us if she’d made it out okay. But those memories feel about as painful as a paper cut compared with the ripped-apart tired and scared I am now. My legs barely hold me. I don’t know why I’m shaking, only that I can’t stop.
Gerty nods, but I see her squinting upward a lot. It’s so cloudy and the trees so dense, we can’t make out where the sun is in the sky. “We’re heading north. I’m sure of it,” she says.
But then I spy a red thread tied around a tree. One of our trees. “Gerty.” She stills and something flashes across her face. It’s panic, I think. A memory I don’t want slams me. My mom’s face looked a lot like Gerty’s just did when the judge sentenced her. Like Gerty, her eyes darted to mine as though measuring whether I understood what had happened. I didn’t then. I do now. We’ve circled, somehow, and are right back to where we were this morning.
I want to scream at Gerty, the fury rushing through me more foul than a chomped-up cricket. How can we be right where we started? She made me feel like she knew what she was doing. She was supposed to know what she was doing!
Gerty’s bottom lip trembles. “I thought I knew… I’m doing what I’m supposed to.”
I swallow my anger. “Well, that didn’t work out. Let’s go this way.” I point toward the left. Maybe it’s west? I don’t know.
Gerty cradles her hurt arm close to her body. She licks her dry lips. “I can make a compass. I bet there’s a magnet on the plane somewhere.…” She lowers the emergency pack and unzips it, muttering something about a cork.
“We don’t have any of those things,” I whisper. I yank another thread from the fabric and tie it around a new tree in the opposite direction from where we’ve been going. “Let’s go.”
We don’t talk for a long time. The sky turned orangish red and now is darkening. The air feels heavy, too thick to fill my lungs. Earlier Gerty said that it was the wildfire smoke, but not to worry. Even if the flames were still in Bryce Canyon, the smoke could travel hundreds of miles.
“I’m sorry,” she says as we walk through the dark. “I’m supposed to know stuff, how to get out of this. I thought I knew—”
“You know a lot,” I tell her. I catch myself as I trip on a root.
“But I’m the one who crashed. I’m the one who got hurt, and I’m the one who led us in circles.”
I use the Pulaski to lift a branch so Gerty can go under it. We’ve been heading downhill for a while, looking for another stream. The plan is to camp there for the night so we can fill up the flask again and again. My mouth is so dry. I shiver and shove my hands deep into my jean pockets. I wish I had worn boots like Gerty. My toes squish in my sneakers, still damp from stepping into the creek hours earlier. Something howls in the distance, and something else responds to it, closer. When a twig snaps a few yards away, I tell myself it’s another fat squirrel or the fox that’s been following us around. It’s too dark to see anything.
Gerty is hunched as she passes me, her hurt arm so close to her body, even with the brace, that I know she must be hurting a lot. “You landed the plane.” She stills for a moment, so I know she hears me. “We got out of it because of you. You kept going, even though you’re hurt. You made sure we had good water to drink and food that didn’t make us sick. You know a lot.”
“But I don’t know how to get us out of here.”
“We’ll figure it out,” I tell her, letting the branch drop behind me just as something in the woods screeches. I jump ahead, right into Gerty, who has turned into a statue in front of me. “Gerty?”
My feet slide on gravel. Gravel?
That’s when I realize we’ve entered a clearing. The smoky clouds part enough for moonlight to fall on a little wood cabin with a chicken coop beside it.
“We’re safe!” I yelp.
But Gerty’s hand wraps around my wrist. “Why are all the lights off?”
“It’s late. Maybe everyone’s in bed.”
Gerty shakes her head. “No, something’s wrong.” She points. “The door is wide open on the chicken coop.”
“Maybe it’s a summer cabin,” I say. “Or, like, only used for fishing or hunting?”
“There’s a full trash can,” she says, pointing to the canisters beside the garage with her chin.
I shrug. “So what? It has a roof and walls. Probably running water, too.” Another howl pierces behind us in the woods. Too close. “Gerty, we’ve got to get inside.”
Gerty doesn’t say anything.
“C’mon,” I tell her. “Maybe they left a door unlocked or a key under the mat if they’re not home. Maybe they have a landline or a computer or something, and we can let our families know we’re okay.”
Gerty steps backward. “What if it isn’t safe?”
“Of course it’s safe!” I tell her. “Safe as houses.”
20 GERTY
My arm is its own wildfire.
I know I should check it, but every time I move, I want to throw up.
The back door slides open into a kitchen with gleaming yellow wood floors, white cabinets and countertops, and a basket of eggs in the middle of a wooden table. Dirty dishes are piled in the sink, crumbs are scattered around the toaster, and there’s an inch of cold coffee in the pot. “Hello?” Hayes calls, and then walks inside. “Hello!”
No one answers.
I go to the table and pick up one of the eggs. Is Alex planning to bring Donald and the rest of the flock along when we go to Oregon? Did they already leave? Are they waiting for me?
“I’m going to see if they have a house phone,” Hayes says.
I trail behind him as he turns on lights and heads down the hall. There are clean rectangles along the hallway where artwork or photographs used to hang. Something thumps in my chest at the empty spots. Hayes doesn’t hesitate, and I know he hasn’t noticed them.
We pause in the doorway of the bedroom. A handmade quilt hangs like artwork on the wall. The bed is neatly made, but the dresser drawers are open, with a trail of clothes scattered across the floor. It’s out of place in the orderly little house. There’s a big black safe on the floor of the closet, the door shut.
“They left in a hurry,” I say.
“Maybe they’re just messy,” Hayes says.
Across the hall from the bedroom is a small room with a desk. There’s a dust-free square on the black desktop but no computer. There are a bunch of cords, though, as if someone grabbed the laptop but left those behind. A file cabinet is open, folders spilling out of it, and papers strewn on the floor.
A news flyer is on the floor next to the printer.
EVACUATION NOTICE: Sevier County, Utah, is under an immediate evacuation order due to threat of wildfire in the region. This is a Level III order. Take family, pets, and necessary items for at least a three-day period. Remember important papers and current medication. Consult the Sevier County Red Cross, informing them of where you and your family will be staying even if you do not intend to stay at the shelter. Drive with lights on, safely and slowly, out of the evacuation zone.
It’s dated and time-stamped at one o’clock today. I glance at the clock hanging on the wall of the little office. It’s nine o’clock at night.
The winds must’ve shifted.
“What do we do?” Hayes asks. I didn’t realize he was reading the notice over my shoulder.
“What can we do?” I ask. A part of me knows I should be worried. A series of facts swim through my head. Like that wildfire can move more than six miles an hour in dense woods like those we’re amid. That we’re in a house made of wood planks on a remote, empty road. That no one knows where we are. And that it still might be the safest place we could be right now, compared with being alone in the forest.
Hayes’s eyes unfocus. “The fire department will send out crews. They’ll go door-to-door to make sure everyone is out,” he says. “My mom did that. They’ll do it too.”
I nod, not bothering to tell him that might have already happened. That this family and the neighbors probably already contacted the Red Cross. I go into the bathroom and wash my face with one hand, using the creamy white soap beside the sink. It smells like Mrs. Freid, fresh and clean. For a wild moment I wonder if this is her house. I realize I haven’t had to go to the bathroom for a long time, and I drink water from the spigot.
“No phone here, I guess. I’m going to check for other houses,” Hayes says. He’s holding a big black flashlight, flicking it on and off. “Maybe we just didn’t see any in the dark. Maybe one of them has a landline or a radio or something.”
I nod as I press a fluffy towel against my damp cheeks. I should go with him. But I want to keep pretending this little house is mine. My brain feels foggy, probably from hunger or from so much adrenaline. I know the house isn’t safe, but it feels like nothing bad could ever happen here.
I drop the towel when I picture Jennifer dancing down the hallway. Bad things can happen anywhere, anytime.
But Hayes already left.
* * *
“Nothing,” Hayes says a few minutes later, stepping back through the sliding door into the house. “I didn’t see any houses around and I didn’t want to go too far.”
Hayes’s stomach growls loudly, and I crack a smile. I hand him a plate of scrambled eggs. I made them with real butter I found in the fridge, but having used one hand means there are a few eggshells. Hayes doesn’t seem to notice. “Isn’t this, like, stealing?” he says as he plows a forkful into his mouth.
I laugh. “I can go try to find some ants if it makes you feel better about it.”
He brings the plate in closer to his chest as he shovels more eggs onto his fork. “I peeked in the coop. There are some chickens sleeping inside. I guess they’ll make more.” He stills for a second, then scrapes some eggs onto a different plate. He shrugs at my eyebrow raise. “The fox is out there. Maybe this’ll keep him from eating the chickens.” He chews his lip as though reconsidering.
“I’ll make more eggs,” I tell him, and am answered with a grin. I scramble the rest of the eggs while he puts the plate outside in the yard. I tell Hayes we should rest only for an hour. Two at the most. Then we should head down the road toward, hopefully, town.
Soon we’re sitting on the couch in the living room. We’re drinking hot cocoa mixed with a can of evaporated milk that Hayes found in a cabinet. There are even little marshmallows on the top. It tastes like Christmas morning used to. He laughs when I run my finger through the dark sludge at the bottom of the mug and lick it. “Bleh!” It’s salty, with none of the sweetness I expected. “That’s so gross!”
“I should’ve stopped you, but it’s payback for the cricket,” Hayes says.
Hayes is dunking toast into his cocoa. I relax into the couch cushions and close my eyes.
“Gerty, we can’t stay long. There has to be a town nearby.”
I should be telling him what our next steps should be. I shouldn’t be soft like this, sitting on a couch pretending it’s ours, that we could stay here forever. I could hunt and garden. Hayes could take care of the chickens. I don’t realize I’m daydreaming out loud until Hayes says he’s a little scared of chickens. I laugh and curl onto my side, pulling the blanket that hangs over the couch with me.
My arm is a wildfire, but we’re safe as houses.
* * *
I’m inside our house. No. I’m inside a cabin. Hayes is in front of me, calling my name.
His face is an inch from mine, and it looks like he’s screaming, but he isn’t. He’s whispering. “Gerty, wake up! Wake up right now.”
Fire! I feel it scorching my arm, all the way to my shoulder, and want to scream, but his hand is over my mouth.
“Someone’s here,” he hisses.
21 HAYES
An orange light glows outside the windows, illuminating Gerty’s face. It takes her way too long to wake up from whatever dream she’s having. She gasps and I cover her mouth with my hand.
Someone flips on the light in the kitchen, right behind us. They step on the broken glass from the rock they threw through the sliding glass door. The door wasn’t even locked. Whoever smashed it isn’t the homeowner back for something they forgot, and I have a hunch that means they aren’t going to let us borrow their phone to call our parents.
We slide down the side of the couch. If we can get to the hall, maybe we can hide under a bed until they leave.
“You know the drill,” someone says. His voice is nasally, the end of each word blending into the next with a whistle. “Look for anything we can sell or pocket.”
Someone else enters the house, their footsteps crunching the glass.
Gerty stills, then inches forward to peek over the edge of the couch. I fight the urge to yank her back by her ankles, but she scurries backward almost instantly. “We’ve got to get out of here,” she whispers. “That’s the same guy who was scoping out my house.”
A third person walks in. “How long do we have, Whistle?”
The guy with the nasally voice says, “This house? Long as we want. Not another one around for miles. All the firefighters are clear on the other side of the mountain. With the other two Marystown houses I want to hit tonight, we’ve got to be quick. They’re right next to each other.” I hear a splash, and then a pungent, sharp odor hits my nose.
“Aw, come on, man,” says one of them while the other laughs like a hyena. “Do we really have to do this?”
Whistle chuckles, ending in a high-pitched sound that would make a dog howl. “Quit braying like a donkey. It’s freaking genius, Sparky! When they see the smoke, the firefighting crew and police will come here. Then we hit the Marystown houses back where they were. Keep ’em running in circles! Everyone blames the wildfire. No one’s the wiser, our pockets are full.”
“That’s not the way it works,” the other guy—Sparky—says. “I told you! Firefighters track the spread. They’ll know this isn’t the same fire.”
Whistle laughs again. “Then we blame the missing kids. Police are out searching all over for them anyway, as if two twerps had any chance of surviving a plane crash, let alone being in the forest for two days.”
“Yeah,” pipes in the third guy. “The parents are convinced the kids are trying to fight the fire. Makes sense if they didn’t find one, they’d light one.” Something smashes. “It’s what I would do.”
“What?” Sparky mutters. “You were a messed-up kid, Lonnie.”
“From the sounds of it, so are they,” Lonnie says with a chuckle. “Did you say the one’s mom was in jail? And the other’s folks are loons living off the grid? People will believe those kids would do anything.”
Sparky laughs. “Well, if they made it through a plane crash and a couple days in the woods, they probably could do anything they want.”
I ignore him. “And then if it doesn’t fill our mouths with hives after another fifteen minutes, we can eat some.”
“And we won’t get sick?”
“Not necessarily, but we shouldn’t die. It’s called a sensitivity test.”
Hayes groans but rubs more grass into his arm. His groan turns into a yelp, and he jumps to his feet. He shakes his hand, throwing off a few dozen black ants. The grass he yanked must’ve been right over a hill of them. He says a bad word and scowls at me when I cheer.
“Settle down!” I say. “This is an awesome discovery.” I pinch one of the ants and pop it into my mouth, crunching down. “A snack we don’t have to wait to eat!”
“You’re disgusting,” Hayes says after blinking at me for a solid three seconds, enough time for me to nab four more ants.
“Mmm!” I say with a grin.
19 HAYES
Here’s something I never wanted to know: ants taste like lemonade mix.
In fact, Gerty throws a few into the flask. She says it’ll counteract the iodine taste a little. “And add interesting texture.” I wonder if, when we crashed, she got knocked in the head despite the helmet.
Munching on handfuls of ants doesn’t fill a belly, but it’s better than not eating anything. My mouth goes from feeling like it’s stuffed with an old sock to feeling like I sucked on citrus coffee grounds. The grass hasn’t made either of our arms or mouths itchy, but it takes a long time to chew into something we can swallow. It’s a little more filling than the ants.
Finally Gerty says it’s safe to drink the water. I gulp three huge swallows. It’s cold and wet, and that more than makes up for the metal-tinged mud flavor. Gerty grabs the flask from me and downs some of her own. Then she refills the flask and adds the drops.
“Should we wait here?” I ask. The sun never really came out today, but it looks like soon it will be evening. I hate the idea of spending another night outside. An owl hoots in the distance, but it’s eerily quiet. Too quiet for woods, I think.
Gerty chews her lip. “We probably should wait another half hour. Then we can drink this,” she says, raising the flask, “and refill it.”
I nod, already thirsty again, but my stomach doesn’t feel quite as empty thanks to the ants. If only they had been bigger; I wouldn’t have had to eat so many. “Look!” I cheer as a cricket hops between us.
“Stop!” Gerty calls as I swipe it up and pop it into my mouth. Whatever, she can find her own bug. She grimaces as I crunch down. And then I try not to throw up all my ants and grass.
Here’s something else I never wanted to know: crickets taste like pee and dirt. Even worse? They’re crunchy on the outside and gooey—very gooey—on the inside.
“I tried to warn you,” Gerty says as she sinks beside me.
A half hour is a long time to wait when your mouth is filled with cricket goo.
* * *
“Do you know where we’re going?” I ask a few hours later. I’ve been really tired before—after running a mile in gym class and then playing football at recess. And I’ve been scared—that first night in the group home, wondering if Mom was okay; all those times she was in fires and no one told us if she’d made it out okay. But those memories feel about as painful as a paper cut compared with the ripped-apart tired and scared I am now. My legs barely hold me. I don’t know why I’m shaking, only that I can’t stop.
Gerty nods, but I see her squinting upward a lot. It’s so cloudy and the trees so dense, we can’t make out where the sun is in the sky. “We’re heading north. I’m sure of it,” she says.
But then I spy a red thread tied around a tree. One of our trees. “Gerty.” She stills and something flashes across her face. It’s panic, I think. A memory I don’t want slams me. My mom’s face looked a lot like Gerty’s just did when the judge sentenced her. Like Gerty, her eyes darted to mine as though measuring whether I understood what had happened. I didn’t then. I do now. We’ve circled, somehow, and are right back to where we were this morning.
I want to scream at Gerty, the fury rushing through me more foul than a chomped-up cricket. How can we be right where we started? She made me feel like she knew what she was doing. She was supposed to know what she was doing!
Gerty’s bottom lip trembles. “I thought I knew… I’m doing what I’m supposed to.”
I swallow my anger. “Well, that didn’t work out. Let’s go this way.” I point toward the left. Maybe it’s west? I don’t know.
Gerty cradles her hurt arm close to her body. She licks her dry lips. “I can make a compass. I bet there’s a magnet on the plane somewhere.…” She lowers the emergency pack and unzips it, muttering something about a cork.
“We don’t have any of those things,” I whisper. I yank another thread from the fabric and tie it around a new tree in the opposite direction from where we’ve been going. “Let’s go.”
We don’t talk for a long time. The sky turned orangish red and now is darkening. The air feels heavy, too thick to fill my lungs. Earlier Gerty said that it was the wildfire smoke, but not to worry. Even if the flames were still in Bryce Canyon, the smoke could travel hundreds of miles.
“I’m sorry,” she says as we walk through the dark. “I’m supposed to know stuff, how to get out of this. I thought I knew—”
“You know a lot,” I tell her. I catch myself as I trip on a root.
“But I’m the one who crashed. I’m the one who got hurt, and I’m the one who led us in circles.”
I use the Pulaski to lift a branch so Gerty can go under it. We’ve been heading downhill for a while, looking for another stream. The plan is to camp there for the night so we can fill up the flask again and again. My mouth is so dry. I shiver and shove my hands deep into my jean pockets. I wish I had worn boots like Gerty. My toes squish in my sneakers, still damp from stepping into the creek hours earlier. Something howls in the distance, and something else responds to it, closer. When a twig snaps a few yards away, I tell myself it’s another fat squirrel or the fox that’s been following us around. It’s too dark to see anything.
Gerty is hunched as she passes me, her hurt arm so close to her body, even with the brace, that I know she must be hurting a lot. “You landed the plane.” She stills for a moment, so I know she hears me. “We got out of it because of you. You kept going, even though you’re hurt. You made sure we had good water to drink and food that didn’t make us sick. You know a lot.”
“But I don’t know how to get us out of here.”
“We’ll figure it out,” I tell her, letting the branch drop behind me just as something in the woods screeches. I jump ahead, right into Gerty, who has turned into a statue in front of me. “Gerty?”
My feet slide on gravel. Gravel?
That’s when I realize we’ve entered a clearing. The smoky clouds part enough for moonlight to fall on a little wood cabin with a chicken coop beside it.
“We’re safe!” I yelp.
But Gerty’s hand wraps around my wrist. “Why are all the lights off?”
“It’s late. Maybe everyone’s in bed.”
Gerty shakes her head. “No, something’s wrong.” She points. “The door is wide open on the chicken coop.”
“Maybe it’s a summer cabin,” I say. “Or, like, only used for fishing or hunting?”
“There’s a full trash can,” she says, pointing to the canisters beside the garage with her chin.
I shrug. “So what? It has a roof and walls. Probably running water, too.” Another howl pierces behind us in the woods. Too close. “Gerty, we’ve got to get inside.”
Gerty doesn’t say anything.
“C’mon,” I tell her. “Maybe they left a door unlocked or a key under the mat if they’re not home. Maybe they have a landline or a computer or something, and we can let our families know we’re okay.”
Gerty steps backward. “What if it isn’t safe?”
“Of course it’s safe!” I tell her. “Safe as houses.”
20 GERTY
My arm is its own wildfire.
I know I should check it, but every time I move, I want to throw up.
The back door slides open into a kitchen with gleaming yellow wood floors, white cabinets and countertops, and a basket of eggs in the middle of a wooden table. Dirty dishes are piled in the sink, crumbs are scattered around the toaster, and there’s an inch of cold coffee in the pot. “Hello?” Hayes calls, and then walks inside. “Hello!”
No one answers.
I go to the table and pick up one of the eggs. Is Alex planning to bring Donald and the rest of the flock along when we go to Oregon? Did they already leave? Are they waiting for me?
“I’m going to see if they have a house phone,” Hayes says.
I trail behind him as he turns on lights and heads down the hall. There are clean rectangles along the hallway where artwork or photographs used to hang. Something thumps in my chest at the empty spots. Hayes doesn’t hesitate, and I know he hasn’t noticed them.
We pause in the doorway of the bedroom. A handmade quilt hangs like artwork on the wall. The bed is neatly made, but the dresser drawers are open, with a trail of clothes scattered across the floor. It’s out of place in the orderly little house. There’s a big black safe on the floor of the closet, the door shut.
“They left in a hurry,” I say.
“Maybe they’re just messy,” Hayes says.
Across the hall from the bedroom is a small room with a desk. There’s a dust-free square on the black desktop but no computer. There are a bunch of cords, though, as if someone grabbed the laptop but left those behind. A file cabinet is open, folders spilling out of it, and papers strewn on the floor.
A news flyer is on the floor next to the printer.
EVACUATION NOTICE: Sevier County, Utah, is under an immediate evacuation order due to threat of wildfire in the region. This is a Level III order. Take family, pets, and necessary items for at least a three-day period. Remember important papers and current medication. Consult the Sevier County Red Cross, informing them of where you and your family will be staying even if you do not intend to stay at the shelter. Drive with lights on, safely and slowly, out of the evacuation zone.
It’s dated and time-stamped at one o’clock today. I glance at the clock hanging on the wall of the little office. It’s nine o’clock at night.
The winds must’ve shifted.
“What do we do?” Hayes asks. I didn’t realize he was reading the notice over my shoulder.
“What can we do?” I ask. A part of me knows I should be worried. A series of facts swim through my head. Like that wildfire can move more than six miles an hour in dense woods like those we’re amid. That we’re in a house made of wood planks on a remote, empty road. That no one knows where we are. And that it still might be the safest place we could be right now, compared with being alone in the forest.
Hayes’s eyes unfocus. “The fire department will send out crews. They’ll go door-to-door to make sure everyone is out,” he says. “My mom did that. They’ll do it too.”
I nod, not bothering to tell him that might have already happened. That this family and the neighbors probably already contacted the Red Cross. I go into the bathroom and wash my face with one hand, using the creamy white soap beside the sink. It smells like Mrs. Freid, fresh and clean. For a wild moment I wonder if this is her house. I realize I haven’t had to go to the bathroom for a long time, and I drink water from the spigot.
“No phone here, I guess. I’m going to check for other houses,” Hayes says. He’s holding a big black flashlight, flicking it on and off. “Maybe we just didn’t see any in the dark. Maybe one of them has a landline or a radio or something.”
I nod as I press a fluffy towel against my damp cheeks. I should go with him. But I want to keep pretending this little house is mine. My brain feels foggy, probably from hunger or from so much adrenaline. I know the house isn’t safe, but it feels like nothing bad could ever happen here.
I drop the towel when I picture Jennifer dancing down the hallway. Bad things can happen anywhere, anytime.
But Hayes already left.
* * *
“Nothing,” Hayes says a few minutes later, stepping back through the sliding door into the house. “I didn’t see any houses around and I didn’t want to go too far.”
Hayes’s stomach growls loudly, and I crack a smile. I hand him a plate of scrambled eggs. I made them with real butter I found in the fridge, but having used one hand means there are a few eggshells. Hayes doesn’t seem to notice. “Isn’t this, like, stealing?” he says as he plows a forkful into his mouth.
I laugh. “I can go try to find some ants if it makes you feel better about it.”
He brings the plate in closer to his chest as he shovels more eggs onto his fork. “I peeked in the coop. There are some chickens sleeping inside. I guess they’ll make more.” He stills for a second, then scrapes some eggs onto a different plate. He shrugs at my eyebrow raise. “The fox is out there. Maybe this’ll keep him from eating the chickens.” He chews his lip as though reconsidering.
“I’ll make more eggs,” I tell him, and am answered with a grin. I scramble the rest of the eggs while he puts the plate outside in the yard. I tell Hayes we should rest only for an hour. Two at the most. Then we should head down the road toward, hopefully, town.
Soon we’re sitting on the couch in the living room. We’re drinking hot cocoa mixed with a can of evaporated milk that Hayes found in a cabinet. There are even little marshmallows on the top. It tastes like Christmas morning used to. He laughs when I run my finger through the dark sludge at the bottom of the mug and lick it. “Bleh!” It’s salty, with none of the sweetness I expected. “That’s so gross!”
“I should’ve stopped you, but it’s payback for the cricket,” Hayes says.
Hayes is dunking toast into his cocoa. I relax into the couch cushions and close my eyes.
“Gerty, we can’t stay long. There has to be a town nearby.”
I should be telling him what our next steps should be. I shouldn’t be soft like this, sitting on a couch pretending it’s ours, that we could stay here forever. I could hunt and garden. Hayes could take care of the chickens. I don’t realize I’m daydreaming out loud until Hayes says he’s a little scared of chickens. I laugh and curl onto my side, pulling the blanket that hangs over the couch with me.
My arm is a wildfire, but we’re safe as houses.
* * *
I’m inside our house. No. I’m inside a cabin. Hayes is in front of me, calling my name.
His face is an inch from mine, and it looks like he’s screaming, but he isn’t. He’s whispering. “Gerty, wake up! Wake up right now.”
Fire! I feel it scorching my arm, all the way to my shoulder, and want to scream, but his hand is over my mouth.
“Someone’s here,” he hisses.
21 HAYES
An orange light glows outside the windows, illuminating Gerty’s face. It takes her way too long to wake up from whatever dream she’s having. She gasps and I cover her mouth with my hand.
Someone flips on the light in the kitchen, right behind us. They step on the broken glass from the rock they threw through the sliding glass door. The door wasn’t even locked. Whoever smashed it isn’t the homeowner back for something they forgot, and I have a hunch that means they aren’t going to let us borrow their phone to call our parents.
We slide down the side of the couch. If we can get to the hall, maybe we can hide under a bed until they leave.
“You know the drill,” someone says. His voice is nasally, the end of each word blending into the next with a whistle. “Look for anything we can sell or pocket.”
Someone else enters the house, their footsteps crunching the glass.
Gerty stills, then inches forward to peek over the edge of the couch. I fight the urge to yank her back by her ankles, but she scurries backward almost instantly. “We’ve got to get out of here,” she whispers. “That’s the same guy who was scoping out my house.”
A third person walks in. “How long do we have, Whistle?”
The guy with the nasally voice says, “This house? Long as we want. Not another one around for miles. All the firefighters are clear on the other side of the mountain. With the other two Marystown houses I want to hit tonight, we’ve got to be quick. They’re right next to each other.” I hear a splash, and then a pungent, sharp odor hits my nose.
“Aw, come on, man,” says one of them while the other laughs like a hyena. “Do we really have to do this?”
Whistle chuckles, ending in a high-pitched sound that would make a dog howl. “Quit braying like a donkey. It’s freaking genius, Sparky! When they see the smoke, the firefighting crew and police will come here. Then we hit the Marystown houses back where they were. Keep ’em running in circles! Everyone blames the wildfire. No one’s the wiser, our pockets are full.”
“That’s not the way it works,” the other guy—Sparky—says. “I told you! Firefighters track the spread. They’ll know this isn’t the same fire.”
Whistle laughs again. “Then we blame the missing kids. Police are out searching all over for them anyway, as if two twerps had any chance of surviving a plane crash, let alone being in the forest for two days.”
“Yeah,” pipes in the third guy. “The parents are convinced the kids are trying to fight the fire. Makes sense if they didn’t find one, they’d light one.” Something smashes. “It’s what I would do.”
“What?” Sparky mutters. “You were a messed-up kid, Lonnie.”
“From the sounds of it, so are they,” Lonnie says with a chuckle. “Did you say the one’s mom was in jail? And the other’s folks are loons living off the grid? People will believe those kids would do anything.”
Sparky laughs. “Well, if they made it through a plane crash and a couple days in the woods, they probably could do anything they want.”
