The Distance Between Lost and Found (24 page)

“You've got its attention,” he says. “Now you have to convince it you're the alpha. I think.”

He thinks
. “How?” It's a gasp more than a word.

“Pretend you're bigger and scarier than it is?”

“Can't.” Hallelujah shakes her head back and forth, back and forth.

“Just”—Jonah's grip on her arm tightens as the bear paces another semicircle, this time coming a few feet closer to them—“try.”

The bear stops to sniff at Hallelujah's backpack again. Then it looks over toward them, rises up on its hind legs, and lets out something that's not quite a roar, but the loudest noise it has made yet.

Hallelujah feels like she is going to throw up.

“I heard you say it: You're not going to get eaten by a bear. So don't!”

That was out loud? She doesn't remember that being out loud.

“And if you need to, you can grab Rachel and run.”

“No. No, no, no, no, no.”

The bear is still on its hind legs.

Hallelujah gets to her feet. Her legs wobble beneath her and her ankle twinges sharply, and she isn't sure she's going to stay upright, but she does. She climbs up onto the log bench, almost losing her balance but righting herself before she falls. She realizes she's still gripping the Diet Coke can.

The bear watches her.

And she gets an idea. How to make a big impact in a short amount of time.

She starts shaking the can. “Jonah. The flint. Now.”

He hands it up to her, understanding dawning on his face like the sun over the mountain behind them.

She shakes the can. She starts waving her arms in the air. And yelling. No words. Just sounds. The loudest possible yells she can make. Yells that hurt her dry throat so much she's sure she'll never speak again. Much less sing. She jumps up and down on her good foot. The energy comes from somewhere, she doesn't know where, but she feels like she's jumping so high, reaching so far, shaking so hard. She is the beast, not the bear.

The bear drops to all fours. It backs up a few feet. It's still facing her, but it's definitely confused.

Hallelujah yells and yells. And, right when she can't yell for another second, she plunges the sharp edge of the flint into the aluminum can and rips. The can explodes in her hand, sending foam and liquid everywhere. With one final yell, Hallelujah heaves the spewing can toward the bear.

It grunts, turns, and runs into the woods.

The can hits the ground by her backpack. It fizzes for a few more seconds, and then drains out.

Hallelujah is covered in Diet Coke. Her hand is bleeding; she stabbed so hard with the flint that she went straight through the can to her palm on the other side.

She stands there for a second, watching the bear go. The morning light has truly arrived, and she can see the bear clearly, smaller and smaller and then hidden by trees.

She starts to tremble. She staggers. Falls off the log, hitting the ground hard. The panic-breath is back. Her eyes well up, and for a second she can't see anything, just her own tears. And she can't breathe. And she's shaking all over, jerky and painful, like Rachel was when she got too cold.

“Hallie!” She hears her own name as if from a distance, through the roar of blood in her head. “Hallie, come here. Hallie!”

It's Jonah's voice.

There's something else: a low, keening, gasping sound.

“Hallie! I can't get over to you. You have to come to me.”

It takes her a second to realize what he's saying. And to realize that the keening, the gasping, is her. She blinks enough to see Jonah reaching out for her.

She pulls herself in that direction. Her arms feel like newborn faun legs, spindly and weak. She has no strength left. The bear took it.

Jonah's arms go around her. He pulls her to his chest.

“Hey,” he says. “Hey, it's okay. You did it. It's gone. It's okay.”

He rocks her like a baby, holds her like she held him last night. There's no self-consciousness left. Just arms holding and voice soothing and hearts beating, and the hysteria passes and she drops off to sleep.

W
HEN
H
ALLELUJAH WAKES AGAIN, IT
'
S FULLY LIGHT
. A
ND IT
'
S
beautiful. The light makes the green leaves sparkle. The air is hazy. The ground of the campsite looks soft, like a tan carpet instead of dirt.

She blinks a few times, letting herself come to consciousness slowly. Like she's waking up in her bed at home on a Saturday with nowhere to go and nothing to do. Like she smells bacon cooking downstairs, and that's what brought her out of her dreams.

“Better?” Jonah asks.

“A little,” Hallelujah answers. Her voice is hoarse. Her throat hurts.

“Good,” he says. “Because Rachel's sick.” He leans back so Hallelujah can peer around him to see Rachel. She's curled in the fetal position on the ground.

“I puked,” Rachel mutters. She's gripping her stomach. And now that she's said it, Hallelujah can see the wet spot in the dirt not too far away. Rachel retches. It's a thick, wet, nasty sound. She turns her head and spits on the ground.

“Did you eat something?” Hallelujah asks, untangling herself from Jonah's arms.

“If I had, don't you think I would've shared it?” Rachel snaps. Then she moans, curling up even tighter. “Sorry. I just . . .” She grunts, pushes up onto hands and knees, tries to stand but isn't strong enough and collapses, body heaving as she spits up liquid and bile.

Hallelujah's stomach turns watching her. “Maybe it was the water? From the creek?”

“Maybe.” Rachel wipes a hand across her face, removing snot and spit but adding a smear of dirt.

Hallelujah turns to Jonah. She sees his leg in daylight for the first time. The T-shirt, already dirty, is now crusted over with brown blood. Not only over the cut itself, but almost entirely around the leg. Jonah must have been bleeding most of the night. She reaches a hand toward his leg and Jonah flinches before she's anywhere close, so she pulls her hand back quickly.

“How bad?” she asks.

“It hurts,” he says, not looking down at it. He's pale, with dark circles under his eyes. “It hurts so bad, for a few minutes, and then it . . . goes numb. Like I don't have a leg at all.” He pauses. “I don't know which one's worse.”

“We need help,” Hallelujah says.

“Yup,” Jonah answers. Rachel retches again.

Birds chirp, welcoming the day. A gentle breeze rustles the leaves. She can hear the creek water moving, just down the hill. It's like nature is mocking them.

Hallelujah looks back at Jonah's leg. It's not bleeding now, not much, but she can tell that if he tries to move—at all—the gash will open up again. And judging by how pale he is, he doesn't have much blood left to lose.

Rachel can barely sit up.

Jonah can't move.

They have no food. They have only half a canteen of rain water.

But there's a trail nearby. A trail that has to lead somewhere. Somewhere with people. On this beautiful spring day, there
have
to be people out there.

Hallelujah knows what she has to do. And she knows she's the only one of them who can do it.

“So where's the trail?” she asks Jonah.

He points. “I think it must be up the hill, maybe another thirty feet,” he says. “See that break in the trees? But I don't think I can—”

“You don't have to. I'm going.”

“Hallie—”

“No arguments. One way or the other, I have to run into someone. And if you two stay here, I can get help back to you.”

Jonah's nodding. But he looks scared. And sad.

“It's the only way, Jonah,” Hallelujah says, squeezing his shoulder. He leans his head over onto her hand.

“I know. You're right.” He takes a breath. “I wanted to get us out of here. And I couldn't do it.”

The guilt in his voice almost stops Hallelujah's breath. “Jonah,” she says softly. “You kept us alive. You built the fires and caught the fish. You made me feel safe. You kept us alive,” she repeats, “and now it's my turn.”

“I know. And I know you can do it.”

“Besides. You still have work to do. You and Rachel have to watch out for each other. But don't move. If your leg stays scabbed, you should make it until I come back.”

“I'll keep him alive, Hal,” Rachel croaks. “I promise.”

All at once, Hallelujah is hit with a million thoughts and emotions.

“Hallie . . . ?” Jonah asks.

And the words rush out of her. “I feel like I'm ready to fight off another bear and then another one, and I feel like I'm going to pass out before I even get to the trail. And I know I have to go, but I don't want to leave.” Her eyes fill with tears. She wipes them away, frustrated. “I don't know if I should be thanking God that we're alive and near a trail or cursing at him for letting it get to this point. I feel him watching, and then I don't, and then I feel him again, and then he's gone.”

Jonah's quiet for a long time. “I still believe he's there.”

“Even with your leg sliced open?”

He winces, but says, “Even with my leg sliced open.” He pauses. “We can say a prayer before you go. If you want.”

“Okay. Yeah. Can't hurt.” She closes her eyes. Feels him take her hand.

“Wait!” Rachel blurts.

Hallelujah opens her eyes to see Rachel crawling over, cradling her stomach with one arm and using the other to pull herself across the dirt. Hallelujah reaches out the hand that Jonah's not holding and grabs Rachel's free hand.

“Not without me,” Rachel says.

“I didn't think you'd want to,” Hallelujah says.

“I want to.” Rachel's voice is thick in her throat.

“Okay,” Hallelujah says. She closes her eyes again. “God, this week has pretty much sucked.”

Jonah makes a surprised noise, but he doesn't interrupt.

“But whether you got us into this or you didn't, whether you have a plan that includes us starving and getting sick and hurt and being scared or whether you're just seeing how everything plays out—please watch over me on the trail. And watch over Jonah and Rachel. Let me find help. Give me the strength to walk however far it takes. Because I'm really, really tired, and I want to go home.” She pauses, feeling like maybe that was a terrible prayer. “Jonah?”

“Yeah. Um. God, please keep us safe today. Hallie on the trail, and me and Rachel here. And, uh, as crazy as the past few days have been, thanks for—” He clears his throat. “Thanks for giving me a chance to make up with Hallie, and to get to know Rachel. Thanks for helping Hallie forgive me. Amen.”

Hallelujah opens her eyes to see Jonah looking at her.

“Was that okay?” he asks, sounding nervous.

She nods, swallowing past the sudden lump in her throat, not trusting herself to talk. She gets to her feet, pushing on Jonah's shoulder for balance. She hobbles over to the edge of the campsite and picks up a limb that's almost as tall as Rachel. She puts it on its end and leans on it like a crutch. It helps. She wonders why she didn't think of this before. But then, it's not like they've always been thinking clearly out here. They kept moving, instead of staying in one spot, easy to find. She and Rachel took that ice-cold creek bath. Jonah went off alone and got hurt. Rachel drank bad water. So many mistakes.

Hallelujah walks a slow circle around the fire pit, using her crutch. Everything aches. But she's still in one piece. Still standing. And she's stronger than she ever gave herself credit for.

“Do you want the water?” Jonah asks.

“No. You keep it. I'll be okay.”
You can do this. You can do this. You can do this
. She feels her exhausted, sore muscles loosening up, firing, ready to move.

She pauses in front of Jonah. She looks down at him. Then, without stopping to think about it, she drops to one knee, leans in and kisses him. Soft and slow. She feels his breath on her face, his fingers sliding up the back of her neck into her hair. His lips are a promise.

Her heart is beating really fast, but the moment feels like it's happening at half-speed. It's so hard to pull away.

She sits back, feeling her face flush. His eyes are still closed. He's smiling a little.

Rachel is staring. She manages a weak grin. “Hal—” she says, and then stops. “I was going to make a joke, but—” Her eyes well up.

Hallelujah pulls her into a hug. “I will be back with help. Today. I promise.”

“Good luck,” Rachel chokes out.

Hallelujah lets go of Rachel. She pushes herself to standing. She looks down at her friends.

Jonah reaches up and takes her hand. “Be safe.” He meets her eyes, squeezes her hand, and lets his arm drop.

“You too,” Hallelujah says.

She starts up the hill.

H
ALLELUJAH TURNS AROUND ONLY ONCE, JUST BEFORE SHE
gets to the trail. Jonah and Rachel are huddling together below her. They're saying something she can't hear. The brownish red on his leg is an angry swipe of color against the sea of leaf green and dirt brown, of moss and bark and fire-pit ash.

They look so small from up here.

She stands, holding on to a low branch for balance, catching her breath, looking down. She wants Jonah to look up. To see her one more time before she goes. But he doesn't. And she doesn't want to yell down. Doesn't want to seem desperate. For attention, for approval, for love, for hope.

She also wants to leave their good-bye the way it was. Whatever happens next, she'll have that kiss.

She's getting a little dizzy, staring down the steep hill. So she turns, climbs another few feet, and is at the trail.

It's maybe two feet wide, and stretches off in both directions for several yards before disappearing around curves and behind trees. It's not perfectly flat, but it's seen many feet. It's cared for.