One Was Lost(2)

“Some trip, right?” I ask.

She ducks her head. And that’s as close to a conversation as we’ve gotten. I sigh. We have three more days of awkwardness in the woods. Three. More. Days.

“Hold up.” Mr. Walker is ultra-alert. “Everybody stay right here. Don’t move.”

Our single file line separates, students clustering into a group. The rain is a touch lighter now, and everything’s hazy and foggy. Mr. Walker clomps ahead while we wait. I roll my achy shoulders and try to ignore how damp and sticky I am under my trash bag poncho.

I can’t see much, but it wouldn’t matter if I could. We all look alike. I mean, Lucas is an easy spot, towering six inches over everyone here. Mr. Walker would stand out too if he hadn’t walked off—he’s the only one with an actual rain jacket, plus he’s got that bright-yellow plastic-sleeve-protected GPS strapped to his arm. I can’t see where he went though. Being short offers few advantages.

“What’s going on?” Madison asks, turning to touch Lucas’s arm for the fiftieth time this hour. “Can you see anything, Lucas?”

“Is something wrong with the bridge?” Hayley this time, I think. It doesn’t matter. Hayley and Madison are sort of interchangeable in my head. Like bookends. In a tent.

Ms. Brighton holds up a hand high enough that even I can see it. I focus on her short, decidedly not-earthy purple nails. “Just hold tight. Mr. Walker’s checking it out.”

She says that like it will solve everything. It might. Back in Marietta, Mr. Walker was a math teacher with bad breath and a collection of football bobbleheads. Out here, he’s Dr. Doomsday Prepper. He’s got enough gear in his pack to start a new society should we get lost. I glance around the sea of drippy trees surrounding us. Scary thought.

“He’s checking the bridge,” Lucas says. “Something with the ballast maybe.”

Plastic rustles as Madison clings harder to his arm. “Are we going to die? Oh my God, I can’t die out here.”

Ms. Brighton laughs. “No one’s dying. Native Americans lived in these forests for generations.”

Lucas snorts. “Uh, last night, you said those same Native Americans still have guru ghosts running around. Driving hunters off cliffs.”

She smirks. “Guru is a Sanskrit word. That was from my first story.”

“Whatever. There were ghosts flinging people off cliffs in the other one.”

“No, the hunters found the cliff on their own,” Ms. Brighton says, correcting him. “The Cherokee spirits just led them away from the sacred animals they were hunting.”

“The only thing I’m hunting out here is a hot shower and cable TV,” Lucas says.

Ms. Brighton’s smile goes wide. “Then I’m sure you’re safe. So let’s all stay positive.”

I’m positive I’m soaked. I’m positive I hate hiking. I’m positive this trip will go down as the worst choice of my young life, but I’m pretty sure she doesn’t want to hear any of those things, so I keep my mouth shut. I squeeze my way between Jude and my tent mate, Emily, so I can see better.

“Oh, the things the forest will teach us!” Ms. Brighton seems delighted at the prospect.

I bite back a grin. Kooky or not, I like her. Granted, the Church of Brighton would be a cobbled-up mash-up of her choice—part Buddhism, part Cherokee spirituality, and a whole lot of all-organic-all-the-time. But she’s nice.

She points ahead. “Oh, Mr. Walker’s headed back. See? It’s probably fine.”

Mr. Walker stomps up the streambed, looking grim. “We’ve got a problem.”

Or it’s not fine at all.

“What problem?” I ask.

“Bridge is out.” He wipes his rain-soaked face like there’s nothing more to say.

I look up at the narrow metal structure. It’s a little rusty and worse for the wear, but overall, it seems intact.

“It’s suspended over the water,” Jude says, his soft voice surprising me. “Isn’t that how bridges are supposed to function?”

Mr. Walker turns away from Jude like he didn’t say anything at all.

“Something’s wrong with the supports, smart-ass,” Lucas says.

Mr. Walker nods at Lucas and points out a sagging seam and some cracks in the dirt that are apparently scary dangerous signs or something. I don’t care enough to make suggestions. This is somebody else’s show falling apart, and I’m just going to stand here like a stagehand waiting for someone to tell me what to do.

“OK, so now what?” Ms. Brighton asks, her oh-so-positive voice dipping a little.

“We can’t trust the bridge. We’ll go down and cross the river on foot.” Mr. Walker taps the GPS on his arm. “We got a flash flood warning a while back, so I want to get on the other side while we still can.”

“But we’ll get wet if we don’t use the bridge!” Hayley (Madison?) gripes.

A laugh coughs out of me.

“I’m already freezing,” Madison adds. Or is it Hayley? No, it’s definitely Madison. I can tell because she’s the one whose arm is always snaking toward Lucas.

“I want to go home,” Hayley says.

We will probably lather, rinse, and repeat this twelve more times in the next hour. These two have been a torrent of complaints. I can’t blame them. This place is like woodsy purgatory.