Would I hear it? In this darkness, will I hear it climb? I push the thoughts from my head. Don’t let the voices take over again, Jane. I think of Paul, and I wonder if he’s alive. The wind blows and I imagine that’s him sending me a hug from afar.
But what am I going to do? I can’t go down now.
I unroll my sleeping bag and perch on a clump of large branches, hooking my feet under and over them to brace myself. I snuggle down into the bag, zip and seal the top, and press my back against the trunk as firmly as possible.
As I sit in this tree, I contemplate the cold. I am freezing now beyond comprehension. I know that the temperature outside is mild compared to what we faced before, so the chill in my bones frightens me. I’m cold now because my body is running out of energy, and it’s damaged by my exertion and exposure for the last few days. I may be stronger than I thought I was, but I’m weakening too. I can only hope that somebody finds me soon.
Chapter 33
I’m awake all night. Adrenaline is pumping through my body, which has gone into a serious protection mode, with all my sensory powers on full alert. I register every twig snap from miles away, and I find myself twitching constantly until the sun rises.
From up in the tree, I watch dawn begin to spread across the sky. It is clear, and I think it will be warm. This is it, I promise myself. This is my day. This is the day I walk out of here. This is the day I find help for Paul.
I climb down slowly and have my sticks at the ready. When I touch ground, I look around carefully and see that there are paw prints all around the tree but no sign of the wolf. I start to walk west, resuming the direction I’ve been traveling.
It is slow going. The forest is thick, hilly, and full of rocks, large and small. I’m tired and my nerves are shot from last night, so I trip and fall more than usual. Each time I fall, I panic and anticipate the wolf. My knees buckle several times as my legs weaken from the stress and lack of nourishment. My body, which has been working harder than I ever asked it to before, craves water more than anything else. It is the first time I fear dehydration, but if I choose to eat the snow, hypothermia will kill me. Despite its early promise, the sun disappears behind a cloud bank. I shake my head at my earlier optimism. But I don’t feel pathetic or disgusted the way I might have last week. It’s better than having no sun at all. I celebrate its warmth even as I feel disappointment. I’ve just got to hang on until the clouds move by again. I keep moving, one foot in front of the other.
My hands are starting to freeze. They’ve been cold for days, but this morning I notice how numb the fingers on my left hand feel. I look at the tips of my fingers, and they look darker. I can’t decide if it’s paranoia; I’m pretty sure it’s real, but I’m not sure if it means I’ll lose my fingers.
My mind flashes on the knife in my hand and the time not so long ago when I thought slicing myself would bring me some kind of joy. Now the thought of losing even an ounce of my blood repulses me. I wiggle my fingers for a second and pray that I can keep them in the end.
At around noon, I stop walking. I’ve been fighting for hours, and I don’t feel like I’ve made much progress. I find a large stick and pick it up. It’s about six inches taller than my head, fits nicely in my hands, and feels sturdy. I walk with it, and it provides the balance and support that I desperately need. I only wish I’d stumbled on the idea earlier.
When I first hear the sound of the river, it comes as a dull roar. At first there is a low tone, like the moan of tired television in a distant room. But it grows louder with each step I take, and eventually the correct synapses in my brain fire and connect, and I get it. River. Water. I pick up my pace and quickly find myself standing on top of a ravine, looking down at a thick, lush, flowing river.
I look north and south, up and down the river, but there’s no entry point. I could try to walk along the river, but I’m not entirely sure my body can carry me any farther. With water, yes, I could keep going. But between the lack of food and dehydration, I’m dead on my feet. It’s so close. I look down. The drop is maybe fifteen feet down a sloping hill that would take me to the river’s edge. I try to calculate how damaging the fall will be, factoring in the snow and the slope, but in the end, it is less complicated than the algebra exams I always failed. If I try to walk the edge of the ravine, I will definitely die. If I jump, I’ll probably die. I weigh my options and opt for probably die.
I walk a few yards in each direction, looking for the ideal place to jump. I know from gym class I’m supposed to bend my knees when I land and roll forward. I toss my stick down and it hits the ground and rolls toward the riverbank. It doesn’t snap or break. It bounces and tumbles a bit, but it survives intact. I’ll be able to use it to walk with me another mile or two.
I’m going to count to three and then leap. God, please help me, I think. One. Paul, stay with me. Two. Paul, I’m coming back for you. Three. Jump, Jane, jump. I leap and for a long, sick second, I hover in the air before my body yields to the force of gravity. The downward rush takes over and I just fall until- bang! — my feet hit the ground hard. Although my legs are bent and some of the fall is absorbed by my thighs and calves, it still jolts my body like a lightning bolt. I pitch forward through air, banging my face into the snow, then flipping again, landing on my feet momentarily and finally collapsing as my ankles give way and I roll over. I roll and tumble until I hit the riverbank.
Finally, I stop rolling and lie there panting, on my back, afraid to move. I open my eyes and watch the gloomy, gray clouds low in the sky.
I’m alive, I say quietly to no one. Or maybe I just think it; I’m not sure. My wrists and hands are, amazingly, unhurt, but my left ankle swells immediately and the pain is enormous. I can bend it a bit, so I know it isn’t broken. I try my best with my frozen hands to tighten the boot. The loud roar of the river fills my ears and suddenly the cotton feeling of my mouth blooms into my consciousness and crowds out any other thoughts. I get on all fours and crawl the rest of the way to the river. The water moves very quickly, and I’m careful not to lean too far in for fear of
getting swept away. That’s a headline I’d rather not imagine: G IRL H IKES O UT OF V ALLEY O NLY TO F ALL INTO R IVER.
I get to the edge of the river and gulp down the water. Food. Drink. Candy. Rabbit. You name it. Nothing has ever tasted as deeply refreshing as the river water. The thick, icy water splashes into my mouth with such force that I nearly choke on it. I try to keep as dry as I can, but water flows down my throat and spills into my jacket and onto my chest and stomach. I pull back for a few seconds before I lap up some more. I repeat this scenario until my stomach swells, and I simply roll onto my back and pass out.
When I wake, I am still thirsty, but a few more pulls off the river soothe me. My stomach is in knots, though. I feel the full effort of the day in my bones, and the hell of the journey still ahead of me looms. A single sit-up is needed, but the energy and desire have dissipated. Rest, then try. Rest, then try.
I close my eyes, and my mind drifts until my father appears. He’s young, like in the photo on my mother’s dresser. He’s wearing a white sweater with dark blue-and-red trim around a small V-neck, the same one he wore on his last Christmas Eve. He’s very tan and wearing sunglasses that hide his sad eyes.
“I’m okay,” he says.
I reach out to touch him. His face is smooth, and the smell of Old Spice lingers in the air. I move his face to the side so I can look at his profile, but what I really want to see is the hole in his head. It’s black and scabbed over with dark, wine-colored blood. I place my fingertips over the hole, and I dig in gently and remove a silver bullet and blood starts to flow down his cheek.