Carter holds a thumb up, yes. But he’s already thinking about his strips of red cloth. John has taken back the knife, but he never mentioned the cloth. Almost certainly never found it. Carter decides the next time John leaves him alone, he could leave behind strips of red cloth as he explores away from the camp. Little marks to help him find his way back—or maybe a way for someone to find him. Signals for the searchers leading the way to John’s secret refuge.

  It might work. It’s a plan, at least.

  “Do you think my father is looking for us?” he asks.

  “Somebody, probably,” John answers. His lips harden and turn downward.

  “You worried about that?” Carter asks.

  John looks at him, shakes his head, snorts. “They won’t find us here.”

  Carter feels a chill in his bones. “I’ll escape, you know.”

  “Good luck with that,” John replies. “Remember, you’re dead if I didn’t come along. You’re a walking ghost. Like me. Maybe we’re both dead already. We walk the earth and leave no trace. It’s the most noble thing a man can do.”

  “What do you mean?” Carter asks.

  “Live, die, come, go, don’t make it worse,” John answers. “Leave the planet in peace.”

  Carter looks at the man for a long time. Hesitates, then utters the question: “What happened to you?”

  John pauses, perhaps surprised by the directness of the question. He seems to be deciding on an answer. “War happened to me,” he says. “The truth is, I’m an erratic, like those two rocks. I got left behind.”

  53

  [WHISTLE]

  Makayla does not want to haul butt all the way up to the summit. Not with this heavy pack on her back. She’s carrying more than usual, unsure how long this journey might last. She’s prepared to spend the night. Up she goes, for this is where the trail leads as she retraces the lost boy’s wanderings. She wants to walk in his footsteps, toes pointing in opposite directions. Isn’t that how you get to know a person? You walk a mile in their shoes, then multiply it by ten.

  The ranger frequently pauses to pull out her map and compass. The tried-and-true, old-school method. She folds down the map, holding her right thumb at her present location, and orients it in the direction of travel. This way, she anticipates the terrain ahead. An advantage the boy, Carter, never enjoyed. Holding the clear compass over the map, she rotates the capsule to align the red orienting lines with the map meridians. Too many hikers depend entirely on their phone’s GPS to direct them. It works great until they hit a dead zone or start using their phones as flashlights. The battery quickly loses its charge.

  On the summit, Makayla unwraps a piece of raspberry-flavored gum. Chews it thoughtfully. She tries to imagine the scene as Carter might have perceived it. She stares out at the conical summit of Wolf’s Snout, the sheer granite cliffs across the way, and the valley and flatlands below. When she looks upon Long Lake glinting in the distance—beyond the bog through which she passed hours ago—Makayla feels certain the boy stood near this very spot. He saw the lake and must have thought: That way. Not knowing how improbably difficult it would be to get there. That old joke, told in a Maine accent: You can’t get there from here. In the other direction lies Blood Mountain. On certain mornings, when the conditions are right, the sun drops down to rim the mountain with a bloodred glow. Thus, the name. She guesses that one of Carter’s miscalculations came at this very spot, when he mistook Long Lake for Crater Lake, an error that took him farther in the wrong direction. Still, not a terrible strategy. Go to the lake, hope for the best. It gave him a destination. Maybe find somebody, something. Makayla is impressed. She is a former college athlete, an experienced trail runner in top physical condition. This long trek must have taken a tremendous toll on the boy, hiking without adequate food or sleep. The mind starts to do strange things under those conditions. Hikers begin to hallucinate, hear voices, lose all sense of the four fundamentals: water, shelter, warmth, food.

  An hour later, she spies a cairn and a flash of yellow on the saddle point, or col, of the ridge. Smart boy, she thinks. Soon Makayla stands on that same spot, holds the wrapper in her hand, and takes a moment to absorb this sensation. The awesome, terrible beauty of this wilderness. She is flooded with hope, mixed with an undercurrent of dread.

  Where is Grace? Amazing Grace?

  Makayla puts the dog whistle to her lips, and blows. Adjusts the frequency, and blows again.

  She calls, “Grace!”

  Then she tries an ordinary whistle.

  Turns and calls in all four directions.

  Nothing happens.

  Instinct causes her to linger longer than usual. She goes through the process again and again.

  Until finally, like an answered prayer, she hears a bark.

  54

  [SLINGSHOT]

  Carter observes John, amazed by his stillness. How he can do nothing—absolutely nothing—for hours at a time. Next chance he gets, Carter plans to escape. Until that point, he doesn’t want to encounter John’s dark side again.

  Carter absently flicks a rock with his thumb. It is hard for him to sit still.

  John half turns his head. Two squirrels skitter and quarrel on high, daredevils out on a limb. “You ever use a slingshot?” he asks.

  “Maybe, um, not really, no,” Carter stammers.

  “Maybe, not really, no,” John repeats. An amused smile crosses his face and quickly retreats, like a tourist on a dangerous street. He stands, scratches ferociously at his beard with both hands, and says, “Okay, then.”

  John goes to the tree, reaches his arm down a deep hole in the trunk. He pulls out the slingshot and a headlamp. He checks the light—it works—then thinks better of it. John returns the lamp to its storage place inside the tree.

  “Come on,” he says. “I know a spot. We’re not going far.”

  Carter hesitates, once again confronted with a different John. He sees no alternative but to play along. They pass through the narrow gap between the two sisters. John turns sharply right, following along the side of the boulder, then bends into a small opening in the thicket, like a mouse squeezing through a crack in a wall. No wasted movement, no empty words: all efficiency. Carter follows, clumsily catching an ear in the prickers.

  “See,” John whispers. He gestures to a hollow where the grasses are bent down. Points to the marks on a tree where the bark’s been scratched away. A smudged print, a pile of scat. “Bigfoot.”

  John turns and winks.

  “Right.” Carter forces a laugh. Suddenly John’s his pal, and a comedian, too.

  “Deer, actually,” John says. “Antler rubbings.”

  They walk on, stepping carefully. John is particular about that. He watches Carter, signaling precisely where the boy should step. After one stern reprimand, Carter makes sure not to misstep. They come to a small clearing, a break in the trees, surrounded by thick understory and forest. John claws a small stone from the earth, not bigger than a marble. He lifts the sling from his back pocket. He wordlessly demonstrates the technique. Pulls the band back until it is taut, zings a blistering shot at a distant tree branch. Looks easy. He hands the weapon to Carter and talks him through the steps.

  Carter understands at that moment how this is John’s idea of training. He is teaching the boy how to survive in the wilderness. Not exactly what Carter has in mind. At the same time, the slingshot looks fierce. A skill worth having. Maybe it will come in handy down the road. After all, isn’t that how David slayed Goliath? A rock to the skull?

  Carter is willing to learn.

  As instructed, Carter loads the rock into the center of the leather pouch, pinches it between the bone of his thumb and the knuckle of his index finger. He sets his feet at shoulders width. He extends his left arm straight, elbow locked. Draws back the heavy elastic band.

  “That band might be a little thick for you,” John comments. “But it’s good for hunting. There you go, nice and steady. Be sure to hold the fork even, not tilted or you’ll miss your shot, maybe even hit your hand.”

  John impatiently takes the sling from Carter. “Draw the band back the same way every time,” he says. “Like this. Right to your shoulder. Let your hand lightly touch your face. See? That’s your mark. It never changes. You aim by adjusting your front hand. Up, down, left, right. Your trigger hand is the same every time.”

  His head drops down, his fingers separate, thwonk; the stone strikes its target.

  It’s Carter’s turn. He aims for a tree about ten yards away—and hits it. Carter beams. He’s enjoying this.

  “Not terrible,” John admits. “I like this spot for target practice. Plenty of practice ammo lying around. When I’m hunting for squirrels and rabbits, I use lead balls. Rocks are too irregular for consistent accuracy.”

  “Where do you get those?” Carter asks.

  “Never mind that,” John retorts.

  One glare from John and Carter snaps back to reality. They aren’t friends; they aren’t buddies. John is a stick of dynamite; the slightest thing might set him off.

  Carter shoots a half-dozen more stones, looking to John for approval, selecting smaller and more distant targets. John instructs him to exhale when he releases. “Back elbow up, don’t let it drop like that,” he reminds Carter. “It’s all a nice, straight line.”

  The forest is quiet, save for the sounds of Carter’s stones plunking against tree trucks or ripping through leaves. No one speaks.

  “How long have you lived here?” Carter asks, attempting to break the awkward silence.

  John doesn’t answer.

  “Does it get lonely?”

  “No,” John answers, so swiftly that it makes Carter wonder if it’s true.

  “When I was in that swamp,” Carter confides, “I don’t know. It got pretty crazy. It’s scary to be alone.”

  John listens.

  “You know what I mean?” Carter prods, irritated by John’s silence.

  John steps away. He takes his right elbow in his left hand and pulls it toward his left shoulder, loosening his back muscles. He reverses sides, does it again. He says, “Maybe that’s who we really are. Those times we are alone. Our true selves.” His voice husky and dry. He never looks at Carter. Instead seems to focus on some distant thing, a falling leaf, a passing cloud, anywhere but here. His mind ten thousand miles away. “To be honest, I feel more lonesome when I’m in a crowd.”

  “But you can’t live here forever,” Carter says. “You need help. Doctors and stuff, in case you get sick.”

  “Doctors,” John grumbles. “It’s better for everyone this way.”

  “You need things, too,” Carter points out. “Batteries and food and clothes. No one can exist out here all alone.”

  John nods, looks away. Just when it seems like the conversation has concluded, he says, “I’m just trying to live as far from people as I can.”

  Carter aims and hits a distant target—high up on the slender branch of a dead ash tree.

  “I have caches of supplies squirreled away in different parts of these mountains,” John says with a touch of pride. “If there’s trouble, I’ll be all right. It’s not all slingshots, I’ll tell you that.”

  “What kind of trouble?” Carter asks.

  “Shhh,” John hushes. He points to a squirrel that has paused on a tree trunk. “Take the shot.”

  Carter shakes his head. He won’t do it.

  John teases, “You’re just not hungry enough.”

  “Guess not,” Carter says.

  “Not yet,” John states.

  Carter hands the weapon back to John. The lesson has concluded. He asks, “Don’t you ever miss it? All the cool stuff?”

  “Cool stuff?” John repeats. There’s new passion in his voice. A trace of bitterness, too. “That’s all anyone wants. More and more stuff. The road to happiness. You think that’s the answer? It’s the problem. People become free not by fulfilling their desires, but by eliminating them.”

  “Okay, but,” Carter says, “some things make life better.”

  “Like what?” John asks.

  “Like, I don’t know, computers,” Carter offers.

  “Computers? That’s why I got off the grid in the first place.” John looks up to the sky, rubs the back of his neck, his mouth drawn into a grimace. “The government already knows too much about us. Watching, spying, eavesdropping. Satellites, drones, cameras everywhere. Probably watching us right now.”

  A wind kicks up, swirls around them. Carter feels the cold creep under his shirt. “What about winter?”

  “Winter gives me focus,” John replies. “Like the squirrels, I’ll prepare, stock up, get fat. I’ve got a little cave all picked out. Winter is the magic time. You’ll see. A stillness comes to this place. Not a bug, not hardly a bird.”

  Carter heard it. You’ll see. Was that a slip? Did John really expect Carter to stay? Is that what’s been going on here? John is training him for survival?

  “Sounds miserable,” Carter says.

  “No,” John replies. “It’s purifying. I love the suffering. It’s when I feel most alive.”

  And again says, “You’ll see.”

  “You think I’m crazy, don’t you?” John says to Carter. It is an accusation, not a question. And like that, the mood shifts.

  55

  [COME]

  Sitka feels the warm rays on her back as she makes her daily inspection of the sun-dappled forest. She noses through ferns and deadfall the way an avid reader turns the pages of a book. Pausing, considering, moving forward but also, sometimes, turning back. The girl, Grace, dozes in her regular spot against the wall, beneath the overhang. She’s not herself, fatigued and feverish. A faint sound reaches Sitka’s ears. She stops, waits, hears it again, louder this time.

  It is a sound ingrained into her through hours and days and weeks of training. A noise she knows. It calls to her, commands her: Come.

  She hurries to the girl, pokes Grace with her nose. Whimpers, prods again. Grace covers her head with the Mylar blanket.

  Sitka barks twice, nudges again.

  Grace rubs her eyes, woozily drags herself awake. Her face feels warm. The dog stands, staring at her, whining persistently.

  “What?” Grace asks.

  Sitka taps Grace with a paw as if to say, Come on, it’s time.

  Grace sees that Sitka is wildly excited. Tail thumping emphatically. Body trembling, torn by conflicting desires. The dog scampers a few feet, almost prancing, comes back, barks in Grace’s face.

  “Oh, sweetie, I’m sorry,” Grace says. “But I don’t understand.”

  She lies back down.

  Then thinks: Wait.

  A feeling stirs in her heart. Like a jolt of electricity. Could it be? Grace reaches for the backpack, finds the whistle, blows using the side of her mouth that’s not cracked and swollen.

  She scrambles to her feet.

  Listens, yearns, hopes, blows again.

  She doesn’t hear a thing.

  But Sitka persists, runs away again, returns with a wild urgency in her eyes.

  “What do you want?” Grace asks again. She becomes newly aware of her position beside the rock wall, beneath the overhang, and realizes it is almost impossible for her to hear any sound originating from above. Or, even worse, for any searchers to hear her.

  She looks at Sitka—the dog is bursting with repressed energy—and asks: “Do you smell something? Hear something?”

  Sitka can’t reply. Her mouth opens and shuts, ears twitching.

  Grace gestures, “Okay then. Go.” Sitka stays, confused. Grace places her hands gently on the sides of the dog’s head. Says softly, “I love you. It’s okay. Go, find it.” Now she stands tall and dramatically points. In the tone of command, she orders, “Go, Sitka. Go now!”

  It is a directional gesture the dog understands, combined with the high-pitched whistle she well remembers. Sitka turns and runs. She follows the trail blazed by the boy just two and a half days before. The scent trail is faint, but the whistle grows louder.

  Then … silent.

  Sitka barks. She is not yet to the hardscrabble scree. The girl, Grace, alone below. Sitka lifts her snout to the air, vacuums in a cacophony of odors. Deer and pine and wintergreen, vole and rain and decay … and raspberry-flavored something. The dog takes the slope in leaps and bounds and suddenly stiffens.

  Sitka stares at a tall, dark woman in a wide-rimmed hat. It is not the man after all. Sitka backs up a step, barks once, twice, three times. The figure kneels, her body softens, shows her straight white teeth. “Are you alone out here? Come, dog,” the woman says. And then remembers, “Sitka.”

  Sitka woofs again. Not a threat. An invitation. She runs down the hill about fifteen feet. Runs back up again, front paws stretched out, rump high, tail up beseechingly.

  Makayla shouts, “Grace!”

  No answer.

  She cautiously follows the dog down the long slippery slope, careful not to fall, awkward with her heavy pack, yet at the same time jumping out of her skin with excitement. Sitka pauses, looks back, imploring the young woman in the wide-rimmed hat to hurry along. The ranger cups a hand around her mouth, gives another full-throated scream. “Grace? Grace Taylor! Can you hear me?”

  56

  [DAMAGE]

  John and Carter are back at camp, eating cold rice. They share a bowl of fresh blackberries. John calls it his daily “harvest.”

  Out of the blue, John presses the question again: “I’m crazy, right? Is that what you think?”

  To Carter, John’s question feels like a minefield. He isn’t sure how to respond, knows there is no good answer. Before he can tiptoe through a reply, John continues:

  “I’m not the crazy one.” John jabs a finger in the air. It darts closer to Carter’s face. The boy leans away. “You think I’m lonely? Like I’m missing out on the wonders of the world?”