The Unsinkable Greta James(47)

The wheels spin and the bus lurches as the driver shifts gears, urging the bulky vehicle up the muddy road. Pine trees scrape at the windows, and Conrad winces every time they’re jolted forward.

Greta rests her head against the back of the seat. “This reminds me of the summer you made me go to camp.”

“Which you hated.”

“I didn’t hate it,” she says. “I was just having an existential crisis.”

“At ten?” He shakes his head. “Asher loved that place.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not Asher.”

“No, that’s true.” He says it thoughtfully, as if it’s only now occurring to him. “You were always better with a guitar than a fishing rod.”

“Hey, I caught a few that summer,” she says, and Conrad gives her a skeptical look. “Okay, I caught Timmy Milikin.” She grins at the memory. “Seriously. I snagged the back of his shirt.”

“On purpose?”

Greta laughs. “What must you think of me?”

“I don’t know sometimes,” he says, but he says it almost fondly. “I really don’t know.”

They’re dropped off at a wooden pavilion in the middle of the forest. Inside, there are rows of life jackets, wellies, and paddles, which the guides begin to pass out.

“Here,” Conrad says, lifting his phone as soon as Greta manages to get everything on. The life jacket is too snug and the boots are too big and—automatically, instinctively—she holds the paddle like a guitar. He snaps a picture. “What do you think they’d pay me for this at Rolling Stone?”

She makes a face at him.

When everyone is fully kitted out, they fall in line behind Tank, who leads them down a wooded path strewn with pine needles. Greta follows Conrad, thinking again about that summer at camp, how all the other kids had seemed like caricatures of hearty midwesterners, aggressively enthusiastic about kayaking and woodworking. They traded friendship bracelets and sang songs and played Red Rover with cheerful abandon while Greta—scrawny and pale and preternaturally self-assured—faked illness after illness so she could lie in the cool of the nurse’s office with her headphones on, listening to “Wonderwall” on repeat. She was ten and miserable and though she still didn’t fully understand why yet, still didn’t totally grasp who she might turn out to be, she knew for sure it wasn’t someone who enjoyed shooting arrows at targets.

Ahead of her, Conrad trips over an exposed root, just managing to catch himself.

“You okay?” Greta asks, and he nods without looking back at her. But she can see that he’s already puffing, one hand clutching his paddle, the other his coat pocket.

She knows he’s always loved this stuff. He grew up on the outskirts of Columbus, in a house much too small for eight of them. There was barely enough money for food, never mind camping. But one summer, his best friend invited him up to Mohican State Park with his family, and for one glorious week, Conrad learned how to pitch a tent and tie knots and rub two sticks together to start a fire. It made him feel a million miles away from his own life, which was exactly what he was looking for, and they invited him back the next summer, and the one after that, until it became a tradition, the brightest spot in every year.

As soon as Asher and Greta were old enough to walk, he had them marching through the swampy ravines near their house on Sunday mornings. For years, he led Asher’s Boy Scout troop, and he gave each of his kids a Swiss Army knife when they turned ten. It always baffled him that Greta could spend a beautiful day in the dusty garage, messing around with amps and pedals, when there were trails to explore and ponds to fish.

“You’re an indoor cat,” Asher once said, as if that explained everything. “And I’m a golden retriever.”

“What does that make Dad?”

He laughed. “A mountain lion?”

A hawk flies overhead, letting out a sharp cry, and Greta watches her dad stumble again. It’s unfamiliar territory, to feel this flicker of worry for him. Physically, he looks the same: the broad shoulders and lined face, the neat haircut and flinty eyes. But ever since her mom died, there’s been something diminished about him. She supposes even mountain lions get old.

One of the other guides—this one clean-shaven and impossibly young—falls into step beside her. “You’ve gotta watch out for that stuff,” he says, pointing out a tall green plant covered in spikes. “It’s called devil’s club.”

“What does it do?” Greta asks, intrigued.

“If you brush up against one and those spiny suckers get stuck in your leg?” He shakes his head and whistles. “Not even tweezers’ll do the trick.”

“So what,” she asks, “you’re just half-hedgehog from then on?”

“You have to wait a few days till they fester, and then you can kind of start working them out.” He grins. “If it sounds gross, that’s because it is. Trust me, I know.”

“I’m guessing that’s a mistake you only make once,” she says, but he doesn’t answer; he’s squinting at her, his head cocked to one side.

“Have you been here before?”

“To these woods in the middle of Alaska?” she says. “No.”

“I meant on this tour—maybe last summer?”