The Distance Between Lost and Found (12 page)

Then Jonah does something Hallelujah would have never predicted. He stands up, looks up. “God,” he says, speaking directly to the low-hanging clouds, “if you're listening right now, I just wanted to tell you we're ready to go home. We're hungry and it was pretty cold last night and Hallie needs a doctor for her ankle. So we'd like to be rescued.” He looks down at Hallelujah. “Anything to add?”

She clears her throat. It takes her a second to find the right words. To push past the doubt, the frustration, the uncertainty that she feels. She tries to latch on to Jonah's belief. She tries to recapture the calm, safe, hopeful feeling she had a few minutes ago.

“Um. God, thanks for not waking us up with a thunderstorm. Thanks for this beautiful morning. I'm honestly really glad I got to see this sunrise, from this spot.” She pauses, a little choked up. “But like Jonah said, we're pretty much ready to be rescued. I don't know—I don't know how much longer we can last. Without help.” Now she's really choked up.

Another surprise: Jonah reaches down and squeezes her shoulder.

He finishes the prayer: “Amen.”

They stay still for a second. Hallelujah is not sure what to do next. She feels like crying. She hopes, so desperately, that they were heard. She wishes she could be sure.

Jonah says, “Breakfast? I'm starving.”

Hallelujah nods.

Jonah walks past Rachel, who's still sound asleep, around to the other side of the fire. He shows Hallelujah some dandelions he's piled on a piece of bark. “Thought we might see how they taste cooked,” he says.

“Should be good.” Hallelujah hasn't seen a recipe for cooked dandelions, but plenty of greens are good warm and wilted. Of course, they usually have butter and oil and garlic and other amazing stuff added in. With a sigh, she digs out the remaining energy bars from her bag and stares at them. Four.

She breaks one in half. Hands the other half to Jonah.

And they sit, nibbling, savoring, waiting for their dandelions to cook, as the sky finishes changing from pink and orange to blue, and the day arrives.

R
ACHEL WAKES UP
. S
HE YAWNS AND STRETCHES
. T
HE RASH ON
her legs is a dull red in the morning light. There are a few blisters behind her knees. Her first word of the day is
ugh
. Then she says, “Hey.” Nods at Jonah and Hallelujah.

“Morning,” Hallelujah says. “How are your legs?”

“They itch. A lot.” Rachel crab-walks over to sit by Hallelujah. “How's your ankle? Did my bandage hold up overnight?”

Hallelujah lifts her left leg so Rachel can see the swimsuit still wrapped securely around her ankle. “It hurts. But I'll live.”

“I'll check the swelling after breakfast. What's on the menu?” A beat. “That's a joke. I already know.”

“Here.” Hallelujah hands her an energy bar. “Save some of it for lunch, okay?”

“More dandelions, too?” Rachel asks.

“Yup,” Jonah says. He serves her a pile on a bark platter.

“Fancy.” Rachel munches her meal, staring out across the landscape. “Some view,” she says a second later.

“Yeah. We saw the sun rise and everything.”

“Cool.”

“And Jonah's going to build another signal fire,” Hallelujah continues.

“Great.” Rachel closes her eyes and opens them again, looking pained. “I hate to ask you this while we're eating, but how big are the blisters on the back of my legs? I'm really . . . not comfortable.” She props her legs up on Hallelujah's rock pillow.

Hallelujah leans down to look. “Um,” she says.

“How bad?” Rachel's voice is flat.

“It's not pretty. Lots of little blisters, and four really big ones. Like the size of a quarter?”

“Ugh. Do I pop 'em?”

“No!” Jonah speaks up from gathering sticks. “Don't. You could get infected. Right, Hallie?”

“I guess.” She sits up.

Rachel gulps. “So I just leave them?” She looks a little green now. Then she visibly shakes herself out of it. She eats her last few bites, then says, “Your turn, Hal.” She pats her lap. “Leg here, please.”

Hallelujah slides forward a few feet. She lifts her foot carefully into Rachel's lap. Rachel unties the straps and gently unwinds the fabric.

The air hits Hallelujah's ankle and the throb starts again. Far off, but coming closer. Hallelujah can't help but hiss a little, through her teeth.

“Sorry,” Rachel says. She keeps her eyes on her work. Hallelujah tries to focus on what Jonah's doing. Dropping sticks into a pile, one by one. And she listens to the birds and the wind and all of the other forest sounds.

Her ankle emerges from its cocoon. It's swollen. Purple and green and deep blue, radiating out from the ankle bone on the inside. It feels warm. But the outside of the ankle is skin-colored, mostly, and the foot itself looks fine.

“I think you'll live,” Rachel says. “Jonah, come take a look.”

Hallelujah twists her head to see Jonah. He's gone pale.

“Jonah?” Rachel says again.

He mutters something.

“What?” Rachel asks.

“I'm, uh, not great with blood.”

“There's no blood,” Rachel says. “Just swelling. And bruising.”

“Bruising
is
blood,” Jonah mutters.

“Are you telling me you're afraid of blood? And bruises?” Rachel sounds genuinely incredulous. “Don't you play sports?”

“Yes.” Jonah clamps his mouth shut, shaking his head. Then he adds, almost under his breath, “I can deal with bruises and stuff if I have to. I just don't like it, okay?”

“Don't worry about it,” Hallelujah says, wondering how she didn't know this about Jonah already. How it never once came up. “Rachel will take care of me.”

“Thanks, Hallie,” Jonah says. He looks mortified.

But Rachel can't seem to let it go. “So you get light-headed, or what? Do you throw up? Pass out?”

“Rachel,” Hallelujah says.

“I just need to know what I'm dealing with, you know?” Rachel shoots back. “What if one of us gets cut and starts bleeding? What if we need you?”

“I'll be fine,” Jonah says, sounding like he wishes he'd never brought it up.

Rachel relaxes abruptly. “Sorry,” she says. “I'm just . . . anxious.”

“We all are,” Hallelujah says. Jonah says nothing.

Hallelujah studies her ankle, making a mental note of how the swelling looks and where it starts and stops. She wishes she had a camera. But her memory will have to do. She watches Rachel wrap the swimsuit-bandage around and around. Then she leans her head back and closes her eyes until the throbbing ebbs.

“S
O, WHAT'S ON THE AGENDA FOR THE DAY
?” R
ACHEL ASKS, LIKE
she's starting a business meeting. “Does anyone move that we get rescued?”

“Sure,” Jonah says. “Let's get rescued.”

“You have to say ‘I move' and then whatever,” Rachel cuts in. “It's one of the rules of parliamentary procedure.”

Hallelujah and Jonah just look at her. “Seriously?” Jonah asks.

“Yes. We have to maintain order, so we don't go all
Lord of the Flies
.”

Hallelujah snorts. “Okay. I move that we get rescued. Today.”

Rachel's hand shoots into the air. “Seconded.”

Jonah adds tentatively, “Thirded?”

“That's not a word, Jonah.” Rachel sticks her tongue out.

“If ‘seconded' is a word,” Jonah argues, “why isn't ‘thirded'?”

“‘To second' is a verb, in a meeting like this.” Rachel spreads her arms wide to indicate their makeshift mountaintop boardroom. “‘To third' is not a verb.”

“Well, maybe it should be.”

“Also, ‘thirded' sounds weird and gross. Like, ‘Who thirded?'” Rachel wrinkles her nose.

Jonah laughs out loud. “Wasn't me.”

Hallelujah giggles too. Then she forces herself to focus. “So, Jonah, you're rebuilding the signal fire,” she says, even though she knows that's the case. “We have two and a half energy bars left, plus one full bottle of water, a Diet Coke, and some dandelions.”

“Right,” Jonah says, resetting his features to Serious.

“So we need more water and more food.”

“Yes. In case we don't get rescued.”

“So that
when
we get rescued, today,” Hallelujah corrects him, “we can yell and jump up and down and run to them.”

“I like how you think, Hal,” Rachel says.

“So,” Hallelujah goes on, “Jonah: we stay here with the fire until . . . ?”

He thinks for a second. “Lunchtime,” he says. “We let the smoke signal go for a few hours, hope that it doesn't rain again, split a meal, and then head down toward water. Unless it does rain—then we'll have water. But we'll still need food. Anyway, hopefully, we'll see people before then, or they'll see our fire.” He pauses. “Maybe, if we find a creek, I can catch a fish or something.”

“Way to go, Mr. Eagle Scout!” Rachel claps.

“I never said I was an Eagle Scout.” Jonah clears his throat. “And I said maybe.”

“You'll catch a fish,” Rachel says. “You'll catch lots of fish. We'll have a good old-fashioned fish fry.” She shivers a little. “Are y'all cold?”

Hallelujah looks up at the sun. It's still shining down. “Not really,” she says.

“Oh.” Rachel pauses. “Can I borrow a jacket from one of you? If you aren't cold?”

Jonah hands over his jacket, and then stands up and walks to the edge of their small campsite. “I'm gonna get more wood,” he says.

Rachel wraps Jonah's jacket around her legs. She shivers again, pulling her own jacket tight.

Hallelujah takes off her jacket and peels off her long-sleeved shirt, holding it out. “Want this?”

Rachel shakes her head. “No. But thanks.”

Hallelujah feels the sun on her bare arms for the first time in two days. It feels good. She has goosebumps, but they're warmth goosebumps, like her skin is coming alive again after being cold and wet all day yesterday.

She stuffs the shirt into her backpack instead of putting it back on.

“Maybe you'll get a tan,” Rachel cracks. She wriggles around to sit next to Hallelujah. She lies back on the ground. Looks at the sky. “Join me, Hal,” she says, patting the ground beside her.

Hallelujah spreads her jacket out on the grass and lies back on it, looking up.

“I spy a rabbit,” Rachel says, squinting.

“Where?”

Rachel points.

Hallelujah squints too. The cloud in question does look sort of like a deformed rabbit. With too many legs. “I spy a sailboat,” she shoots back.

“That?” Rachel points again. Hallelujah nods. “That's not a sailboat, that's, like, an upside-down ice cream cone.”

“What?” Hallelujah twists her head around. “No way. I stand by my sailboat.”

“Fair enough.” Rachel is quiet for a minute. “I used to play this game with my dad. When I was little. We had this big backyard and we'd lie in a different place every day. Dad convinced me that you could see different cloud formations from different spots.”

Hallelujah waits a second, then scooches her body a few inches to the left. “You're right,” she says. “That
is
an upside-down ice cream cone.”

“Ha-ha.” Rachel punches her arm. “I haven't seen my dad since Mom and I moved. He's had a lot of work stuff. Or at least that's what he says. And I can't stop thinking, if we don't get found soon—” She breaks off.

“You'll see him again.” Jonah's voice, behind them, followed by the sound of wood hitting the ground.

“Sure. Of course.” Rachel nods. But Hallelujah can see her eyes glistening in the sunlight.

Imagining Rachel as a kid, studying the clouds with her dad, makes Hallelujah think about her own parents. The good things. Her dad's corny jokes, and the way he used to laugh at them himself even if no one else laughed. The Beatles songs her mom used to sing to her at bedtime. Her dad's patience with her when it took her weeks and weeks to learn to ride her bike. Her mom making up stories about the flowers in their garden, to get Hallelujah to help her pull weeds.

Her parents seem different now, and it's not just because she's older. What happened with Luke changed them, just like it changed her. Or maybe it changed them
because
it changed her.

“I just miss him a lot,” Rachel goes on. “And what's weird is, I don't just miss the version of Dad before my parents started hating each other. I actually miss the yelling. Is that crazy?” She turns her head to look at Hallelujah.

“That's not crazy,” Hallelujah says. She pauses, adds quietly, “Or if it is, we all have something that makes us crazy.”

“Yeah? Your turn. I've been waiting for
days
. What makes you crazy, Hal?”

Hallelujah considers for a second. Should she? Then she throws caution to the wind, watches it sail out over the trees, over the hills. “Luke Willis,” she says. “I hate him.” She repeats it louder. “I hate him!” She shouts it at the sky, even though it's hard to shout lying down: “I! Hate! Luke! Willis!”

Rachel asks, “But what did he
do
?”

Hallelujah can hear Jonah waiting for her answer. She knows he's waiting because he's stopped making fire-building noises. He's silent. Completely.

She takes a deep breath. “He told a lie about me. Actually, a lot of lies. And people believed him. The grown-ups, because he's the preacher's son and he'd
never
do something bad. And everyone our age—because he's popular and you don't question the popular guy, because if you do, you'll stop being popular yourself. Or you'll never get the chance. And because of what he said, my parents stopped trusting me. I lost friends. I was just this loser who—”