Until the Day I Die(43)

But if I say all that I’ll probably start bawling like a baby, and I’m sure not ready to let this guy see me ugly cry. Besides, I have plenty of stuff to sort out already—getting to the bottom of this glitch at Jax, finding my dad’s missing journal—without dumping my entire personal emotional dictionary on some random dude I just met.

So I just nod.

When he finishes his coffee, he gives me a hug, and we say we’ll see each other around. Then I ride my bike down to the drugstore for the most formidable-looking combo lock I can find.





24

ERIN

The hash is slow going. Besides the fact that Lach’s flour marks seem to be immediately absorbed into the damp, mossy jungle ground, we keep having to stop while Deirdre is sick all over the same damp, mossy ground.

The checkpoints appear roughly every half mile or so. At each one, we find and guzzle the tiny mini water bottles Lach has left, then attempt to decipher the next set of flour signs, most of which are designed to purposely mislead us. To find out which mark is the one to follow, we have to split up and explore each trail. I don’t like that part. The way it forces us to separate. Most of the trails dead-end, and we wind up yelling for each other, echoing back and forth through the trees until we can locate each other and start all over again.

The air has a weight to it, a suffocating heat that’s intensified by the thick canopy of trees and bushes that wrap their muscular arms over the land. Alabama is hot, but this is a whole different universe. Also none of us has eaten since the night before. By afternoon, Deirdre has begun dry heaving.

Jessalyn plops down on a rock. “I’m not doing this anymore,” she says, ripping the rest of a torn fingernail off. “I don’t give a shit if I fail the test and have to stay here another month. I’m done.”

“I’m going to die,” Deirdre announces then leans against the trunk of a knotty tree.

“We have to keep going,” I say. “There’s food at the end.” I have no idea if what I’m saying is actually true, but I feel compelled to keep everybody’s spirits up. The CEO in me, probably. I’m also legitimately worried about Agnes, by herself in the jungle. She clearly had her reasons for cutting out on the L’élu, but I don’t know if not telling anyone was the right thing to do.

In fact, as we’ve been leaping over fallen branches and roots, splashing through streams, and slogging up muddy hills, I keep seeing the fear in Agnes’s eyes. Hearing her tell me to find a weapon. What the hell was she implying?

After I give Jessalyn and Deirdre my best mom/cheerleader/CEO routine, they seem to rally. An hour later, we’ve made it to the big flour on-in checkpoint where we get (hooray!) full-size bottles of water. Just on the other side of a clump of bushes, we find our camp. It’s a simple space, a generous-size clearing matted with ferns and encircled by four small tents and a fifth, larger one. A neat campfire bordered with rocks crackles in the center. Off to the side, a picnic table loaded down with plastic containers of sandwiches and cookies and chips and fruit beckons. I have no idea what time it is, but the sun is low in the sky, and it’s cooled considerably.

I want to cheer. I want to cry. I want to lie down on the ground and sleep for three consecutive days.

“Chickadees.” Near the campfire, Lach’s slouched on a folding chair with his ankle propped on his knee, flip-flop dangling. He’s changed into a fresh T-shirt and a light-blue bandana holds back his hair. His tent must’ve been fully stocked beforehand. He holds up a bottle of tea, beaded with condensation, and waves it at us. My mouth waters in response, then I see his eyes cloud. “Where’s Agnes?”

“She opted out,” Jessalyn says.

“She what?”

“She opted out of the experience,” Jess enunciates. “By which I mean, she bounced.”

Lach straightens. “Which way did she go?”

“Back in the direction of away from here.”

He addresses me. “Where?”

I shake my head. “I don’t know. We didn’t actually see her leave.”

“Jesus. Oh, shit.” He starts pacing in tight circles, scratching the back of his head. He gestures toward the picnic table. “Get some food and wait for me. I need to make a call.” He pulls a phone out of his pocket and walks to the edge of the campsite.

“Dude’s going to get fired,” Jess says.

“I don’t know. But I do feel bad,” I say.

“Me too,” Deirdre says. “But not for him.” She jerks her thumb toward the tents, a couple of yards beyond the campfire. “It’s naptime, chickadees.”

Jess and I settle at the picnic table, where we descend on a stack of turkey wraps. They’re warm and limp from sitting in the sun, but I don’t think I’ve ever tasted anything quite so delicious.

“I wonder what Antonia’s going to do about Agnes,” I say. I can’t forget Agnes’s prayer in the showers. Her crying in the spa as the woman—Antonia, I assume now—berated her. The universe is trying to tell you something, Agnes.

Jess plucks a cluster of grapes from a plastic bowl. “I don’t know, but truth? Not our problem.”

“Yeah.” I check out Lach pacing at the edge of the clearing. He’s still on his phone and gesticulating in earnest now.