You Are Here(51)

“This isn’t a gourmet restaurant,” he said. “You’ll just have to live with it.”

But she only glared at him, took two bites, then chucked the rest on the ground, looking on in silence as the dog bounded over to finish it off. Peter took a seat again—careful to pick a different log, keeping his distance this time—but even so, Emma got up with a sigh. He watched her through the darkness, feeling a mounting sense of frustration with the way she just stood there, hands on her hips, as if this decision—as well as all those before it and all those still to come—was so obviously hers to make. Everything always seemed to hinge on her word, her next move, her changes of heart and ridiculous whims. She was spoiled and bullheaded and maddeningly temperamental, so why did he always go along with everything she said?

Peter had risen to his feet with a frown, unable to help feeling like they were squaring off, eyeing each other across the weakening fire. Emma glanced behind her toward where the car was parked, and Peter decided right then to take a stand. She could have it all to herself for all he cared. He refused to be stuck in such a small space with her anyway, not when the air between them was so crowded with all that had been said. His gaze drifted across the campground, searching out a spot to sleep, formulating a plan, but before he could voice it, before he could put his foot down and make a decision and finish this night on his own terms, Emma turned on her heel and stalked off toward the car on her own, slamming the door behind her so hard that it left no question about whether or not he was welcome there anyway.

Peter stood still and watched her go, thinking that he’d never even had a chance.

Now he surveyed the same hushed woods, shivering despite the rising sun. He imagined this was what a hangover felt like: a throbbing sense of regret and a certain reluctance about making it through the day ahead.

The dog was nowhere in sight, his white coat conspicuously absent from the surrounding campsite, and so Peter set off toward the car to look for him. When he’d gone to sleep last night, the dog had been at his side, the two of them curled up beside the snuffed-out remains of the fire. And though he knew it was silly, Peter felt like he’d won at least a small battle for the night, pleased that the dog had chosen his company over Emma’s.

But when he peered through the dew-covered window of the convertible, all he saw was Emma, curled in the backseat with her knees drawn close to her chest, her hair falling across her face in a way that made her look very young, and somehow very lost. Peter stood there for a long moment before turning back to the quiet forest.

For the first time he began to feel bad that they hadn’t even given the dog a name—this now-constant companion of theirs—and so he picked his way through the wooded trails, calling out, “Hey, dog!” and whistling every now and again. His feet were loud against the dry branches, and he kicked at the oversized pinecones that lined the paths, his head bent and his eyes searching the gaps between the trees.

It wasn’t until he began his second loop of the campground that he started to worry, his stomach tightening at the idea of moving on without their new friend. He paused and took off his glasses, running a thumb absently along the foggy lenses. The trees were interrupted by thin bands of sunlight, and he held his breath and waited for the dog to emerge, wet and muddy, his tongue lolling out to one side.

“C’mon, dog,” he called out again, his voice hollow and faraway. He put his glasses back on and kicked at the trunk of a pine tree, then said, “Let’s go,” in his best no-nonsense voice.

But there was still no sound, no echoing bark or crashing of branches. And despite everything—Emma and her ridiculous ideas, the muddy paw prints on the backseat of the stolen car, the policemen lining the highways with their flashing red lights, the threat of all that was behind and before them—this was the first time Peter really felt the whole thing being wrenched from his grip. It was as if he’d lost more than just a stray dog that had never really belonged to him in the first place; it was like losing the trip itself.

He walked back slowly, wishing he had a map of the park, the trees marked off as little green circles, the streams running like threads across the page. He was already organizing a search party in his head—breaking the mountainside into neat grids, directing imaginary rescuers to different quadrants—when he arrived back at the car. The side door was half open, and Peter could see Emma’s legs, long and tanned and mosquito-bitten, hanging out the side. She poked her head out as he approached.

“Where were you?”

Peter walked around to the driver’s-side door and sat down heavily in the seat beside her. “I can’t find the dog.”

“Did you look?”

“That’s pretty much what I meant by not being able to find him.”

She scowled at him. “Did you try yelling?”

“Yes.”

“Whistling?”

“Yes.”

“Shouting?”

“That’s the same as yelling,” he said. “He’s not anywhere.”

“Well, he’s got to be somewhere.”

“So you’d think.”

Emma sighed as she got out of the car, and they both slammed their doors hard at the same time, as if it were a contest, the car rocking between them. The sky had lightened a few shades, and the birds were now singing in earnest, but although there were dozens of campers scattered in the woods around them, it somehow felt like they were all alone.