The Distance Between Lost and Found (21 page)

Rachel yawns and stretches. “What time is it? How long did I sleep?”

“A while. I don't know . . .”

Jonah should be back by now. Something has happened. Hallelujah feels the certainty of it, deep in her gut. “Can you walk?” she asks Rachel.

“I think so. I feel okay.” Rachel yawns again. She glances at Hallelujah's ankle, wrapped in its dirty pink bandage. “Can
you
walk?”

“I don't think I have a choice. We have to find Jonah.”

“Well, let me look at your ankle first.” Rachel shifts around to sit opposite Hallelujah and pats her lap. Hallelujah puts her foot on Rachel's legs. Rachel pulls off the boot and starts unwrapping the swimsuit. And Hallelujah's ankle emerges: red and blue and purple and green and, on the edges of the bruise, yellow. Hallelujah gasps at the sight of it, and Rachel looks up.

“Considering that we don't have ice or ibuprofen or a proper bandage, and that you've been walking on it,” she says, “this is actually not so bad.”

If this isn't so bad, Hallelujah thinks, she wouldn't want to see worse. But she just says, “Okay.”

Rachel wraps Hallelujah's ankle back up, very carefully. Even the gentle touch hurts, though, and Hallelujah has to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from whimpering.

“Almost done,” Rachel says. She ties the ties, slides Hallelujah's boot back on, and looks up. “There.” A pause. “Now what?”

“We have to find Jonah.”

“We don't . . . have any food left, do we?” Rachel says the last part quick and casual, like she just has the munchies. Nothing serious.

Hallelujah holds up the empty sandwich bag. There are a few morsels of fish clinging to the bottom. She and Rachel lock eyes. Hallelujah opens the bag and runs her finger through it. She hands the bag to Rachel, who does the same. They stick their fingers in their mouths and suck.

Hallelujah feels a sob bubbling up. She tries to talk it away. “When we find Jonah, we're not separating again. Whatever happens from here on out, we're together.”

Rachel nods. She licks her lips like she's searching for the phantom taste of fish.

“Jonah's fine,” Hallelujah goes on. “He's fine.” Him not being fine is not an option. He didn't go far; he found something interesting; he lost track of time. She tries telling herself that he found people searching for them, that he found help. But she doesn't really believe it. If he had, they'd have been here by now. “He's fine,” she repeats. It's the best she can do.

“He's totally fine,” Rachel echoes. But Hallelujah can see the shadow of every possible catastrophe flickering in her eyes.

A cool breeze blows into their shelter. Hallelujah looks at their two backpacks. “Okay,” she says. “You're going to put on all of my extra clothes. You'll be warmer and our bags will be lighter.”

Rachel nods. She stands, slowly, bracing herself on the rock walls. She sways. She blinks. “Whoa,” she whispers. At Hallelujah's worried look, she adds, “Just dizzy. I'm okay.” She takes off her jacket and pulls on Hallelujah's swim shorts and long-sleeved shirt. They hang loosely on her tiny frame. She has to roll the waistband of the shorts down a couple times before they stay up. Then she puts on Hallelujah's extra T-shirt, with her jacket back over top of it all. “I look ridiculous,” she says.

“You look warm.”

“I know,” Rachel says quickly. “Thanks. You ready?”

“As I'll ever be.” Hallelujah extends her hands and braces her good foot on the ground. Rachel grabs hold and leans back, and through some miracle of physics, Hallelujah is upright. She slumps against the rock for a second. Catches her breath. Then, with the taste of fish in her mouth and a sense of doom in her stomach, she takes a hobbling step outside.

“Not so fast, Hal,” Rachel says. She hooks her shoulder under Hallelujah's arm. She's smaller and shorter than Hallelujah, so she fits perfectly. Unfortunately, when Hallelujah puts her weight on Rachel for real, Rachel's knees buckle a little. The two of them stagger-hop over to a nearby tree. “Okay,” Rachel says. “We can do this.”

Hallelujah is already feeling discouraged. But she tries to tamp it down. “Jonah went that way.” She points. “And I didn't see him cross back. So we'll start over there.”

Rachel takes a step. Hallelujah hops, landing heavily and off-balance on the uneven ground. Rachel wavers. Barely keeps her balance. But she stays on her feet, so they try the same thing again. Step, step, hop, stumble, catch. Ten feet feels like a major accomplishment. Twenty feet feels like a miracle. And eventually they fall into a rhythm, and Hallelujah stops thinking of anything but moving forward and looking and listening for Jonah.

“Jonah!” she calls. She's already out of breath from the effort of hopping and holding Rachel up and staying up herself. Shouting hurts, deep in her chest. But she shouts again: “Jonah!”

The sky is turning the color of sunset. But it's a cloudless sky. No rain on the horizon.

“Jonah!” Step, step, hop, stumble, catch. The damp leaves are slick. It feels like the ground is shifting under their feet. A few times, Hallelujah is forced to put weight on her sprained ankle, and each time it's a new hit of pain. She knows that a wrong move from either of them could pull them both down. And they might not get up. But she keeps moving forward. Toward the clearing where they spent last night; it's as good a starting place as any. “Jonah!” she calls. Her voice cracks. She clears her throat and calls his name again. Rachel joins in. They call again. And again. And again.

S
HE'S NOT SURE HOW LONG THEY'VE BEEN WALKING
. T
HE SUN
has almost vanished over the tall mountain behind her. Her voice is a husk, dry and rasping.

“Jonah!” she calls, and coughs. It hurts. She needs water, but she can't get a water bottle out of her bag without stopping, and stopping is not an option. Not yet. “Jonah! Answer me! Come on! Please!” The last word comes out as a squeak, mostly air with no sound behind it.

They've been following the creek downstream. It's Hallelujah's best guess at what Jonah might have done. This creek could lead to another body of water, and then another, and eventually, to civilization. A house. A fishing shack. A tubing business. Those are all over the Smokies. Kids floating down the river on rented inner tubes. Hallelujah fantasizes for a second about floating. Rachel in a tube on one side and Jonah on the other. Feeling weightless, letting the current cradle her and rock her. Her ankle twinges at the thought.

Of course, Jonah might not have followed the creek. It seems like what he would do, but can she really predict which of a hundred options he'd choose, alone in the mountains, caught in a sudden and violent storm?

But she will not give up. Will not stop calling until her voice gives out. Will not stop walking until her legs will no longer hold her up.

She inhales deeply. “Jonah!” Forces it out from her chest, rather than from her raw throat. Projects, like she learned how to do in choir. “Jonah, we're coming! Just tell us where you are!”

“Jonah!” Rachel's call is more of a stage whisper. But she's trying.

The area where they're walking is almost entirely in shadow now. The sky is a gorgeous blue-gray, purple around the edges. It's getting hard to see the ground clearly, and Hallelujah stumbles. Rachel keeps her upright, but she stands hard on her injured ankle. She has to stop. Let the pain wash over her. Nerve endings are firing from her forehead to her toes. The knife in her boot stabs her over and over. She squeezes her eyes closed and takes five deep breaths.

“Hal?” Rachel croaks.

Hallelujah bites her lip. The pain recedes a little. She opens her eyes.

And she sees it.

Jonah's blue jacket. Floating in the creek. Riding the lazy rapids, both sleeves extended. It looks almost black in the dusk, but she knows it's Jonah's. And he's not in it.

“Jonah!” she screams. She looks back and forth, up and down the creek, squinting. It's getting too dark. If he's passed out somewhere, if he's hurt, how is she supposed to—

“Hallie! Over here!”

She whips around. “Jonah?” The call came from ahead of them. Not too far.

“Hallie! I—I need help.”

“Where are you?”

“By the water.” His voice is softer now. Strained. Like the two shouts were all he had in him.

“Wave your arm or something!”

He does. Hallelujah sees it as a moving shadow across the creek. The larger shadow that's the rest of him is half in and half out of the water.

“I see you!” she calls. “I'm coming!”

The arm drops.

The creek isn't too wide here. It's not deep. The water's slow. But Hallelujah and Rachel aren't steady on their feet on land.

Rachel's eyes are wide. “I don't want to go in,” she says, staring at the water. “I don't want to.”

“We have to.”

Rachel is already shivering, like just the thought of the cold water is chilling her. “I know,” she says. “I just . . . don't want to.”

“I know,” Hallelujah says. She hugs Rachel close.

They slip and slide down the bank to the creek. At the water's edge, Hallelujah feels Rachel tense all over. She's still shivering, but she steps in. She helps Hallelujah limp in after her. The water rushes up around Hallelujah's boots, bitterly cold. So cold, like ice cutting through her skin.

There's no longer enough daylight for them to see the creek bed, so they feel their way carefully. Don't move until they're sure the ground's solid. Ankle-deep, calf-deep, knee-deep: halfway there. A few steps and they're calf-deep. Then ankle-deep again. Then at the bank.

Rachel collapses to the ground, shaking all over. She starts rubbing at her legs, trying to warm them. “Go,” she says through chattering teeth.

Hallelujah hops over to Jonah. She lowers herself to sit beside him.

He's on his back, one hand gripping a thick root to stay on the bank. His legs are in the water up to his thighs. His face is shadowed, but even so, Hallelujah can see the grimace of pain. She's afraid to ask right away.

Instead, she leans over him and says, “Jonah. I'm here.”

H
IS EYES FLUTTER OPEN
. “H
I
.”

“Sorry it took me so long.”

“Don't apologize. I think I passed out. For a while.” He's pale. His breathing is really shallow, almost panting. And his eyes—his eyes are scared.

“What happened?” Hallelujah asks.

Jonah shakes his head like he's trying to clear out the fog. “Hallie, I found—I followed the creek a little ways, and then went uphill—back there—” He waves one arm in the direction of upstream. “And you're not gonna believe it—I found a campsite!”

Hallelujah draws in a sharp breath. She spins and makes eye contact with Rachel, who's still curled up on the ground.

“There weren't any people there, but a campsite has to mean there's a trail nearby.” Jonah takes a shuddering breath. “I ran back down the hill to get you two. And when I was crossing the creek, I thought, might as well catch some more fish. For dinner. So we can be ready to get up tomorrow and find our way out of here. Then that storm came up, out of nowhere. One second I was standing in a foot of water, two fish in my backpack, and the next there was this downpour, and all this water came at me, and it knocked me over. I got washed down here. Lost my backpack. And—” He nods in the direction of his legs.

“And?” Hallelujah echoes.

“Cut my leg on a rock.” He doesn't elaborate. The sentence hangs in the air.

“What can I do?”

“Campsite's not far. I think we should spend the night there. If we can get back to it in the dark. And maybe you and Rachel can patch me up?”

“Of course.” Hallelujah doesn't bring up how awful she's feeling, how much her ankle is throbbing, how the mention of fish almost makes her delirious.

The last light is leaving. They don't have much time.

“Rachel?” Hallelujah looks over her shoulder again. Rachel is now lying on her stomach, dipping her water bottle into the creek and drinking the contents, over and over. “Be right there,” Rachel says.

Jonah grabs Hallelujah's arm. “I tore strips off my T-shirt to mark the way back to the campsite.”

“Good.”

“We can use my watch for light.” He holds up his wrist and shows Hallelujah the faint blue glow.

She repeats, “Good.”

Rachel comes over to sit next to Hallelujah. She squints toward Jonah's legs. “Where'd you get cut?”

He pushes up onto his elbows. The movement makes him full-body cringe. He scoots back out of the water a few inches, gasping with each shift of weight. “Thigh,” he grunts, jaw clenched. “Thought the water might . . . numb it.”

“What do we use for a bandage?” Rachel asks.

“Use this.” In one smooth motion, Jonah pulls his T-shirt off inside out. “I guess just wrap it around as tight as you can,” he says. “Since it's not like we can get it clean.”

Hallelujah takes the shirt. “Can I rip it up?” she asks. There's already a bit torn away near the bottom. She runs the fabric between two fingers.

“Go for it.” Jonah pulls himself another few inches up the bank and then slumps back to the ground, closing his eyes. “Can you see it?” he asks Rachel.

“I think so.” Rachel's got her face close to Jonah's leg.

“Okay. The blood . . . I mean, I can't . . .” He sounds queasy, on top of the pain. “I didn't really look at it yet.”

“Hal, you need to see this.” Rachel pulls Hallelujah closer. “Can I?” Without waiting for a response, she slides Jonah's watch from his wrist and points its tiny blue screen at Jonah's thigh.

And Hallelujah sees it. A jagged cut starting on his outer thigh, under the hem of his cargo shorts, and—she follows its path as Rachel moves the light—passing the knee to stop at the calf. Six inches, maybe seven. The skin is puckered, pulling away from the open wound. Watery blood is already trickling down Jonah's leg to join the dirt. It looks bad. It looks like it
hurts
.