The Last One(26)

I knew I would lose weight during taping. Secretly, I considered it a bonus to being part of the show. But this degree of weight loss scares me; looking like this, it’s difficult to tell myself that I am strong. My last period ended about a week before the show started; I wonder if this frail body is capable of having another.

I select a new jacket, a dark green one with a fleece-lined hood. It has zippers under the armpits, so I won’t have to take it off and on so often. I transfer my surviving glasses lens to the jacket pocket. Then a backpack, which I fill with supplies: extra underwear, my second water bottle, a few packs of water purification drops, biodegradable cleansing wipes, a small bottle of Dr. Bronner’s, the flashlight, extra batteries, a compact poncho, my dull knife and the Leatherman I used to open the batteries, my battered little pot, a new first-aid kit to replace my depleted one, two dozen protein bars of assorted brands and flavors, some granola and beef jerky, trash bags from behind the counter. I find myself drawn toward superfluous gear: a BPA-free plastic spork, binoculars, a pocket trowel, deodorant. Of these luxury items, I allow myself to keep only a collapsible mug and a pack of herbal tea. There’s no reason to weigh myself down now. Finally, I tuck the dead microphone into the media pocket at the top of the pack.

I’m ready to move on, but the sun is setting. It seems stupid to leave now.

It’s a store, not a house. Maybe it’s okay to sleep here. Maybe I’m meant to. I look at the tent in the window. Maybe this is still part of my reward.

I drag the tent through the aisles, setting it between the footwear display and a rack of Darn Tough socks. I stack several camping pads and two sleeping bags inside, then toss in an armful of tiny camping pillows. I illuminate my indoor camp with battery-operated lanterns, then the ultimate luxury: I light a camp stove. I find a rack of just-add-water meals in the corner. All the varieties sound delicious. I take three—chicken cashew curry, beef stew, chicken teriyaki with rice—and place them on the floor. I close my eyes and slide the packets around, then choose one without looking. Chicken cashew curry. I boil water and pour it into the bag. After what feels like the required thirteen minutes, I devour the rehydrated food with the spork I’m still telling myself I won’t keep. It’s not fully hydrated; the specks of chicken are chewy and the green bits—celery?—have a serious crunch. But it’s delicious—tangy and slightly sweet. Softened by soaking heat, the cashews are an entirely new entity from trail-mix nuts. When I close my eyes I can almost convince myself it’s a freshly cooked dish. After I finish eating, I cram five of the meals into my new pack. That’s all that will fit.

I crawl into the tent a few minutes later. I’m used to the prickling of pine needles, the crunch of dead leaves, the odd jabs of rocks and pinecones. The tent floor is uniformly soft. It’s strange, and I’m not sure I like it. It’s also warmer in here than I’m used to. I loosen the laces of my new boots and lie on top of the sleeping bags. As I lie there staring at the nylon sky, my muscles relax. This isn’t so bad, I think. I could get used to this.

By morning I know better. I’m anxious to move on. I vaguely remember waking into uneasy semiconsciousness last night. How many times I’m not sure, but more than once. A tightness to my jaw and a lingering sense of fear tell me I had bad dreams, and though I can’t remember particulars, I think they involved coyotes. Yes, a sinuous pack of coyotes coalescing like water droplets as they run soundless through the trees.

I shake off the sensation of being surrounded. I’ve been indoors too long, and I’m sore from sleeping on so much cushioning. I need to keep moving. I rehydrate a Denver omelet for breakfast, and then I go, returning to my road and hiking my way past the gas station, east.





8.


Rancher elbows Tracker and nods toward the picnic table that has appeared beside their fire pit. “Quite the spread,” he says. Tracker steps away from his arm. Banker and Biology are grinning; the piece of mint leaf stuck in Biology’s teeth will be wiped away in editing. There’s far more food on the table than these four can eat in a single sitting. Grilled chicken breasts, burgers, rolls, Caesar salad, asparagus, corn on the cob, potato salad, sweet-potato fries piled high in a wicker basket, pitchers of filtered water and lemonade. The feast could feed all twelve contestants, easily. Banker looks at the other teams across the field, walking toward their respective camps.

“We could share,” he says.

Rancher shakes his head. “Nah, we won, fair and square.”

“It’s not like they’re starving,” says Biology. “It’s just a game.”

Her last comment will be struck. The on-site producer will approach her later, remind her not to call their situation a game. “We’re trying to maintain a particular feel,” he’ll say, and his eyes will drift toward her chest.

“Sure, sorry,” she’ll reply, too tired to call out his wandering gaze.

As Tracker’s team digs in, Zoo and Engineer head to the river, fishing kit in tow. Carpenter Chick and Waitress sit by the ashy remains of their fire, poking still-hot coals with sticks.

“Having a good time?” asks Carpenter Chick.

The day is warm, but Waitress remembers the cold of last night. Smudged mascara accentuates the exhaustion under her eyes. “The best,” she replies, deadpan.

Carpenter Chick’s lipstick has faded, but some of the eyeliner remains, giving her lids a smoky sheen. Her first impression of Waitress was rather contemptuous, but she’s beginning to pity the sad, beautiful girl. That’s how she thinks of her now—a girl, no matter that only two years separate them and Waitress is nearly a foot taller than she. “What do you think the next Challenge will be?” she asks.