The Last One(35)

“Where are you going, Mae?” he asks.

“I’m calling it a night.”

“There are empty houses all over,” he says. “Let’s find beds.”

I keep walking. I wish I could walk faster without risking a fall.

“Mae, come on. You’re not serious?”

“You go find a bed, I’m sleeping here.”

He doesn’t let the gap between us grow more than a few feet before following.

I build my shelter, using a low branch as its spine. The kid watches me and after a few minutes begins constructing his own. The branch he uses is too high, nearly shoulder-height. He leaves both ends open and barely layers any leaf litter on top, resulting in a structure that is more wind tunnel than shelter. I don’t say anything; I don’t care if he’s cold.

I vaguely remember reading somewhere that quartz serves well as flint, so as I collect firewood I also collect rocks that glitter. After my tinder is ready, I take the largest stone and rub the dirt from its sharp edge with my shirt.

“What are you doing, Mae? Making a fire?”

I flick out a few of the tools on the Leatherman. I don’t know which is best for making a spark, but the fire starter had one sharp edge and one curved, so I decide to try the shaft of the screwdriver. I hold the tool in my left hand and the rock in my right. I’m probably going to hurt myself. I wonder if a warm meal on a warm night is worth the trouble.

“You can really start a fire without matches?”

My stomach drops. Gas stations always have lighters on the counter, or matches behind the counter. I didn’t even look. How could I be so stupid—again? Annoyed, I smash the flint and steel together in a downward motion. No spark, but I still have all my fingers. I try again, then again. The dirty bandage on the back of my right hand begins to peel. The rock splinters. I select a new one and switch from the screwdriver to the shortest blade. I should have taken the stupid bow drill they gave us for Solo. I never got a coal, never even got smoke, but I’d have a better chance with that kit than I do with this caveman banging.

“You haven’t done this before, have you?”

I can barely see his face in the growing dark. My hands ache.

“Can I try?”

I hand him the Leatherman and a rock. He fails to create a spark for about thirty seconds, then jolts away. “Ow!” He’s dropped the tools and holds his left hand to his mouth, sucking on his pointer finger’s knuckle.

On my next strike a lone spark leaps from the blade and floats toward the tinder—I hold my breath, watching. The spark lands, and then flickers out. Too late, I dip my face to the ground and blow.

“Do that again.” This time I can’t resist glaring. “Sorry,” he says.

Four strikes later, another spark lands. This time I’m ready. I breathe; tiny flames appear. The kid cheers and I find I’m smiling too. Within minutes, a full fire crackles before us. This feels like my greatest accomplishment in weeks, perhaps ever. I glance at the kid, who’s warming his hands over the flames. I see drying blood on his knuckle. My mood sours instantly. He’s not the person with whom I want to be sharing this moment.

I boil some water to rehydrate a packet of beef stew and take out the spork that I kept after all. The kid eyes my meal as he gnaws on a crumbling Butterfinger.

“Did you take anything other than candy?” I ask.

“Chips.” He pulls out a bag of kettle-cooked and his eyes slip again to the stew.

I chose my supplies with care. I cannot give him any.

A few minutes later, he coughs, hand to chest. He takes a sip of water and coughs again. When he sees me watching, he croaks an explanation, “The peanut butter stuff got caught in my throat.”

Despite everything, I feel sorry for him. “How about a trade?” I ask. “I’ll give you a beef and broccoli for the chips.” He hurriedly agrees. I don’t want the chips and they take up too much space. I open the bag, squeeze out the excess air, and roll it closed. I jam it into my pack.

The kid pours hot water into the beef-and-broccoli pouch and pinches it shut. “How long?” he asks.

I take another sporkful of my meal. He stares at me as I chew. After a moment I answer, “Ten minutes.”

He’s eyeing my stew again, but I’ve already given him enough. When he plows into his meal only a few minutes later, I can hear unabsorbed water sloshing in the bag and each bite crunching between his teeth. He pauses to wipe his face with his sleeve. A glitter of firelight reflects off his wrist. A bracelet, I think, and then I narrow my eyes, focusing long enough to make out an oval patch of contrasting color and texture.

It’s not a bracelet—it’s a watch.

The rules said no electronics allowed. We couldn’t bring cellphones, or GPS devices, or wristwatches, or pocket watches, or any other sort of timepiece. My husband and I laughed over the list, and he asked, “Who owns a pocket watch?”

Not this kid. He has a wristwatch. I stare at the device, stomach churning, and then it hits me—that’s why he’s here.

He’s the cameraman.

There’s a camera in his watch, and who knows where else—his belt buckle, hidden in the stitching of his sweatshirt. Mics too. He’s the opposite of Wallaby—chatty and obtrusive—which means that he’s not only here to record, he’s also a Challenge. They’ve made him seem young and helpless, but he’s not. Every action, every word, is part of the world they’re creating. Because he’s not just a cameraman; they’ve allowed him a name.