I make it about a half mile before the sky splits open. There’s no lightning, no thunder. Just rain. I run for cover, certain I can find something to use for shelter. But everything I think can work looks terrifying to crawl beneath. There’s a wide plant that can do the trick if it weren’t decked with black needles. And another that shoots up and over like an umbrella that I’m certain shelters killer somethings or others. I imagine all sorts of insects and animals have the same idea I do — seek shelter — and I suddenly realize rain’s not so bad. Not in comparison anyway.
It seems there is less green growth near the base of some trees. I suspect that has to do with lack of sunlight. Whatever the reason, I crouch down and lean against a tree trunk, the wet bag heavy in my arms. Rain still pelts me, but it’s not as harsh here. I think about continuing to walk while it pours, but something tells me staying dry is important. Reaching my arms out, I gather some rain in my cupped palms and quench my thirst.
I sit for what feels like hours. The rain doesn’t cease. As best I can, I try to cover my bag with my body, shielding it from getting too wet. Already, it feels like the egg and device are my ticket to winning, and I can’t risk either getting damaged. When I can no longer handle the shaking in my arms — or the anxiety that threatens to overwhelm me — I close my eyes. And despite all odds, I fall asleep.
When I wake, everything is blanketed in dark. It’s a dark like I’ve never experienced. I can’t see what’s five feet in front of me, but I can hear the rush of rain and smell thick, musty scents I don’t recognize. My head starts to pound. I didn’t think about this part of the race — the night.
I’ve never liked the dark. Not as a child, not now. And this … this is almost unbearable. Blood pulses in my ears, and I push my hands over them to stifle the sound of my own heart thumping. Within seconds, I’ve imagined every worst-case scenario. Most of which involves being eaten by something.
Once, when we still lived in Boston, my mom took me to hot yoga. It’s normal yoga, but for masochists. In it, they teach you to retain control of your mind and body in uncomfortable situations. This is as uncomfortable as I’ve ever been, so I swing my legs beneath me to sit cross-legged. Then I place my hands on my knees and breathe. In. Out. In. Out.
Something tells me this doesn’t work when you’re in the middle of a jungle at midnight.
An ear-piercing shriek penetrates the night. Though it sounds like it’s a mile away from where I sit, I imagine it’s only inches. Moments later, another shriek emanates from the opposite side of the jungle. The two animals call to each other. Back and forth, back and forth. If I were watching this on TV, I would find it awe inspiring. But here — sitting in my damp clothes on the forest floor, blind to what’s around me — it’s so overwhelming, it makes me cry.
I brush tears from my face and think of Mom. When Cody and I were little, she would sing to us. It was a special occasion, her singing. She’d only do it when we were sick. Not for a sore throat or a bruised knee, but for the bedridden times when even soup and hot tea and warm blankets didn’t help. I can’t count the number of times Cody or I feigned an illness to rope my mom into singing.
There’s nothing else I can think to do.
I pull my egg out of my bag and nestle it in my lap. There’s no telling what this thing holds, and part of me is afraid to find out. But for now I try to forget that and just imagine it’s something normal, like a chicken.
I draw in a big breath.
I’m not the world’s best singer, but I’m not the worst, either. And so I sing for my Pandora, blocking out the sounds of the jungle, forgetting why this may be a bad idea. I just run my hand gently over the dull shell — and I sing.
Because I can’t see anyway, I close my eyes and picture my family as I’m singing. I remember the time my parents brought home a blue parakeet, and Cody and I released it six days later. I almost laugh when I think about the face my Boston best friend, Hannah, made when I told her I loved the goth kid from biology class.
I lift up my Pandora so that my lips brush its shell. I sing every song I can remember the words to. And when I can’t sing any longer, I lie on my side, keeping my arms wrapped tightly around my egg. When I feel myself drifting off once again, I nuzzle my head against my egg and imagine how wonderful it will be when my Pandora hatches. How I won’t be alone anymore.
I don’t care what it will look like.
Or what it will do.
I just want it to be here, now.
“Good night, little Pandora,” I say. Then opening my eyes and looking straight at the smooth, fragile egg, I add, “Good night, Madox.”
I don’t so much sleep as drift in and out of consciousness. And when the sun finally creeps through the canopy of leaves overhead, I chalk it up as a job well done. I managed to live through a night in the jungle. How many people can say that?
My Pandora is in my arms when I wake. I rub my hands over him and stretch my legs.
“Ready to get moving, Madox?” I say.
I don’t feel ridiculous in the least speaking to my egg. I’ve gotten it in my head that if I’m nice to him, then maybe he’ll come out quicker. Or she. Or it. I wouldn’t judge. I place Madox into my bag, thinking I really like his name. Madox. I’m not sure where I got it from. Some movie or TV show, no doubt. Either way, I like the idea of him having an actual name. I mean, KD-8 is cool and all, but Madox sounds less like an alien species.
Running my tongue over my teeth, I cringe. What I wouldn’t give for a toothbrush and a shower … and a turn-of-the-century toilet. Turns out I never properly appreciated the awesomeness that is toilet paper. Next time my mom asks me to pick up a jumbo pack at the store, I will hold my head high.
“I think if we only stop once to rest,” I continue, “we might make it to the jungle’s perimeter by nightfall.” I have no idea if this is accurate, but I’m trying to make Madox feel better. As if he understands. “Want me to sing to you again?” I pause and imagine him/her/it skipping around and nodding. “All right, already. Calm yourself.”
As I walk, I begin to repeat all the songs from last night. My clothes are still drenched from yesterday’s shower, but I’m certain they’ll dry as I move. It’s amazing how optimistic I feel this morning. This race lasts only three months, I reason. If I can make it one night, I can make it two. Et cetera, et cetera.
When my stomach growls, I’m not surprised. The last thing I ate was a PB&J yesterday morning. The more I think about it, the hungrier I get, until at some point, my brain is pounding against my temples.
As I’m walking from plant to plant — wondering which will kill me fastest if I consume it — I hear a muffled, snapping sound. For the last eighteen hours, I’ve heard more coinciding sounds than I could have thought possible. They never stop.
But this one is close.
I wrap my arm around Madox, mentally telling him that everything is going to be okay. It’s amazing how fast I’ve become attached to my Pandora. One night alone, and I’m more afraid of losing him than I am of starving. But I guess whoever created this race knew this is exactly what would happen.
When the sound comes again, closer, I pull Madox onto my chest and protect him with both arms.
The noise is behind me now. I whip around to face it, shaking so hard, my teeth chatter. A sharp caw rips right above my head and I glance up. When I look back down — an enormous beast is staring right at me, hunger storming in its yellow eyes.