The Distance Between Lost and Found (23 page)

“Jonah,” she says, wrapping her arms around him, “it's okay. Go to sleep.”

“But—”

“We'll talk in the morning,” she says, leaning her head into his shoulder. He drops his head to rest on hers.

As she holds him, she feels him tremble. After a while, that stops. Then he twitches a few times, so hard she's amazed he doesn't wake himself back up. And then, all at once, his whole body relaxes. She can feel his rib cage expand and contract as he breathes, opening and closing her hug around him. His breathing is calm and regular, and it soothes her. Her head fits perfectly in the crook between his neck and shoulder.

She watches the fire. It crackles, sending sparks floating away on the breeze. She can see the smoke in the moonlight. The smell of charred wood drifts toward her, and she breathes it in, imagining it can warm her from the inside out. Her mouth waters at the scent, and she fantasizes about this morning's fish. That fish turns into a feast in her head: a full cookout, grilled vegetables and burgers and hot dogs and chicken and her mom's homemade French fries, all tasting of delicious grill char. With butter and salt and pepper and ketchup and cheese. On top of everything.

The wind changes and the fire smell drifts in the opposite direction. Just like that, the feast is gone. Hallelujah is left with a salivating mouth and an empty stomach.

Time passes. She checks Jonah's light-up watch once and it's 10:23 p.m. The next time she looks, it's almost 11:00. Then it's 11:07.

She blinks and forces her eyes to stay open.

She remembers the last perfect evening before everything happened, perfect even though she didn't know everything was about to change. Karaoke night. A bunch of kids from choir cheering each other on. When it was her turn, Hallelujah belted out “Total Eclipse of the Heart.” She went for every melodramatic note, closing her eyes and beating her chest. She got the whole group to sing along
.

She remembers Jonah taking the stage next. When he sang the opening lines to Garth Brooks's “Friends in Low Places,” the room went nuts. He put on a cowboy drawl and sent the low notes reverberating through the wooden floorboards. She remembers him tipping an imaginary Stetson at her when he was done
.

In a week, Hallelujah would get caught making out with Luke Willis. He would humiliate her and start spreading lies about her. She would become someone quiet and sad and resentful. But right then, performance-flushed and surrounded by friends, she couldn't stop smiling
.

T
HE NEXT TIME
H
ALLELUJAH CHECKS
J
ONAH'S WATCH
, after holding out for what feels like an agonizingly long time, it's 12:06. A new day. She counts in her head: They arrived on Sunday night, which makes today Friday. Time to pack up and head for home.

She wonders what the rest of the week would've been like, if they hadn't ended up out here. It probably would've been miserable. Luke could've turned the whole group against her, chaperones included. He could've come up with new ways to torture her. Or she could've been ignored completely, a shadow on the trail and in the lodge, unseen and unheard. She could've gone home feeling even more alone than she felt in the van on the way there. Even angrier at God.

Instead, she's starving, exhausted, injured, and scared. But not alone. And much less angry.

Hallelujah swats at a bug that's flying around her face. It vanishes and then comes back, drawn by the light of the fire's last gasps, drawn by some scent on her goosebumped, sweat-dried skin. She swats again.

Jonah shifts in her arms. He mutters something. She looks down at him. He's frowning in his sleep. She hopes his leg isn't hurting too much. Hopes he'll be able to keep sleeping. He needs the rest.

She probably does too, but she still feels compelled to stay awake. They're so close to getting out of here. It feels like—like pushing her luck to let her guard down. And keeping her eyes open isn't so hard. It would be easier with a book or a movie, though. It would be easier with snacks.

Chocolate. Like M&Ms. And Oreos. And those chocolate-covered macadamia nuts her mom used to buy from the market for special occasions, to put in the crystal bowl on the coffee table in the living room. For guests. Those, too.

And popcorn! Oh, popcorn. Hallelujah's stomach gurgles, so loud she's sure it will wake Jonah up, but he doesn't move.

Her brain feels like popcorn, jumping around.

The bug is back, buzzing near her head. She blows at it. Bats it away with one arm, the arm that's not pinned behind Jonah. Finally, sheer luck, she manages to hit it. A tiny impact against the palm of her hand.

Hallelujah checks Jonah's watch again. 12:15. Nine minutes since last time.

As if on cue, her eyelids get heavy. She forces them open, and her eyes burn. She blinks. Squeezes her eyes shut and opens them wide: eye exercises.

There's a flutter overhead. The whoosh of wings. Hallelujah ducks as a bird swoops in low, scoops something from the ground on the other side of the fire, and flies off, a dark shadow near the moon. She wonders what it's holding. Whatever it is, she's glad she didn't have to fight it in the dark. Or even see it.

Another bird swoops in. Looking for leftovers.

All we have is Diet Coke
, Hallelujah thinks.
No human food, no bird food, no nothing
.

Diet Coke. She could drink the Diet Coke and stay awake.

A yawn, wide-mouthed and croaking, convinces her. She leans as far away from Jonah as she can without actually wriggling her arm free. She stretches toward Rachel's backpack. She gets her fingertips and then her whole hand under one strap and pulls the bag toward her. It slides easily on the packed dirt. Then it's in her lap.

She unzips the bag. Pulls out the Diet Coke can. She's never been so happy to see a soft drink. She imagines the sensation of the bubbles against her teeth, and how the drink will fizz on her tongue. The can's a little banged up; she hopes it hasn't gone flat. She takes hold of the metal tab. Braces herself to pull. Prepares for the sweet, sweet whoosh of pressure leaving the can.

She hesitates. It's not even one a.m. yet. Maybe she should wait. If she wants to watch for a while longer, just to make sure they're safe, maybe she should put off the caffeine until she can't function without it. For best results.

“What do you think, Jonah?” she asks softly. He doesn't wake up, so she answers for him. “I think it's smart to conserve your resources, Hallie,” she says in a slightly deeper voice than her own. It sounds nothing like him, but that's not the point. “You might be able to stay awake without that.” She pauses, says as herself, “Right, and we might need it tomorrow. For energy to get out. To get help.” She looks at the can in her hand. It's not ice-cold, but its slick aluminum skin is still cool to the touch. She turns the cylinder around, running her fingers through the dents and dings. She feels the liquid slosh inside. “So I shouldn't drink it?” she asks sleeping Jonah. “No, wait for the right moment,” she replies as him. “Okay. Thanks.”

He exhales. He twitches and moans a little.

Hallelujah settles back against the log bench, shifting her seat against the ground. Her butt is falling asleep. She's going to have to get up and walk soon, before she loses feeling in her lower half entirely. But for now, she cradles the Diet Coke can close to her chest, leans her head onto Jonah's shoulder, and waits.

S
HE WAKES WITH A JOLT SOMETIME LATER
. T
HE GUILT SETS IN
immediately, before she's even got her eyes fully open. She fell asleep. She was going to stay awake, and she couldn't. She failed Jonah and Rachel. She is a failure.

Her mouth tastes like dirt and her eyes are crusted over. Her hand is still clutching the Diet Coke, but she has a kink in her wrist. Her arm behind Jonah is pins and needles.

“Good. You're awake.” The voice in her ear startles her, and she swings her head around to look at Jonah. He's sitting perfectly still, staring at her intently.

“Jonah, I'm so sorry I fell asleep, I don't know what happened, I just—”

“Not now,” Jonah says through gritted teeth. “And keep it down.”

Jonah is mad at her. At this point, when they've come this far, it feels like—

“I'm not mad at you,” he hisses. “So stop making that face.”

She blinks at him. “Is your leg hurting a lot?”

“Yes, but—” He gestures with his head and eyes, off to one side. Toward the campfire. “I'm more worried about that.”

Hallelujah turns her head to look, rubbing her eyes. “About what . . . ?” The words die in her mouth.

Past the fire pit, a massive dark spot is moving. It takes a second for her to understand what she's seeing.

A bear.

A giant bear.

It has its face buried inside Hallelujah's backpack. It's making rooting noises. Snuffles and grunts and little growls. Each of its paws is the size of Hallelujah's head.

She lets out a whimper. She fell asleep, and the worst happened. “Has it seen us?”

“It looked at me, but it went straight for the bag,” Jonah says, just above a whisper. “I think it must smell the fish.”

Hallelujah sits as still as she can. Her heart is beating so heavy and loud, though, that she feels like the bear must be able to feel the vibration through the earth.

Rachel is waking up. She shifts and stretches and yawns. “What's going—”

Jonah and Hallelujah shush her. Jonah points and Rachel looks and sees and her eyes go wide and her mouth drops open. She curses softly.

The bear lifts its head up. Shakes the backpack free. The bag hits the ground, limp and empty. The bear walks back and forth over top of it a few times, like it's still searching for the source of the fish smell. It raises its snout into the air, sniffing.

Then it looks over at Hallelujah, Jonah, and Rachel. It cocks its head. It rises up onto its hind feet, as if to get a better view.

In the predawn darkness, with the moonlight fading and the sun not yet up, it looks as tall as the trees. A mythical creature.

It keeps sniffing.

It keeps looking at them.

Hallelujah feels like the air is sparking around her. Rachel is breathing in short, panicked gasps. Jonah is gripping Hallelujah's arm so tightly it hurts. His lips are pressed together. White. She can't seem to close her own mouth. She feels her breath in and out, in and out. Her heart is banging in her ears.

This is what terror feels like.

The bear drops down onto four legs and takes a few steps toward them. Like it's curious.

Like it wonders what they're doing there.

And what they'll taste like.

Hallelujah can't help it—she reaches over, lightning-fast, and grabs Rachel's hand. It's clammy and cold, but now they're all linked.

The bear appears startled by the sudden movement. It sits on its rear end, like a cat, and looks right at Hallelujah. It's still too dark to see the bear's eyes. She can only see the shadows above its snout. That's almost worse.

Oh God, oh God, oh God
. Hallelujah thinks she's thinking it, but a second later, she realizes Jonah is chanting it under his breath.
“Oh God, oh God, oh God.”

Hallelujah can't stare at those dark eye sockets any longer. She looks away. The bear growls a little, a low rumble that sounds deep and dark and primal. And it moves. She hears the padding of feet on dirt. One. Two. Three footfalls.

She looks up. The bear stops. It sits again.

Just a few feet away.

And looks at her.

That's when something inside Hallelujah snaps. This is the last straw. The rain and the cold and the energy bars and the dandelions and the poison ivy and her ankle and Rachel getting weaker and Jonah sliced apart—and now a bear. When they could not be any more vulnerable.

It makes her so angry.

Angry and reckless.

She will
not
get eaten by a bear. Not today. Not ever.

“Go away!” she shouts. The bear leans back. It bares its teeth. “Go away! Leave us alone!”

Jonah's muttering gets louder:
“Oh God, oh God, oh God.”
Rachel sounds like she's hyperventilating.

“We don't have any food! And we're already starving, so, you know, we'd taste awful.” Hallelujah barks out a laugh. “So just leave!”

The bear stands up. It walks in a half circle around the fire pit. Then it turns around and paces back the other direction. It makes a low, steady grumbling noise.

The sun is coming up. The light catches the bear's eyes and makes them glint like some kind of monster.

And Hallelujah wonders if she's made a terrible mistake. “What do I do now?” she asks, panic growing.

She's not expecting an answer. She isn't even sure who she's talking to. Herself. God. But Jonah speaks up, like the question knocked him back into reality.