The summer day had dragged on without end, hot as the underside of a red skillet. Wilson had spent the day languishing about the campsite with the others, alternating between fanning himself and restlessly scribbling in his tattered papyrus journal. He considered the time quite wasted.
Now that the sun had sunk behind the mountains to leave everything bathed in cool shadows, Wilson had no desire to sprawl beside a campfire to roast. A tent tucked near the base of a birchnut tree beckoned him.
He made a grand spectacle of pitching his arms into the air and yawning. His jaw cracked. Everyone turned to look at him as though he were a trained monkey in the center ring of a circus.
Suddenly awkward, Wilson dropped his hands to his lap.
"I'm tired," he announced.
"Little man did nothing today." Wolfgang said, unimpressed. Wilson sneered at his back.
"I've been writing," Wilson said. "Do you want me to get carpal tunnel?"
Willow already had her lighter brandished by the time Wolfgang deposited a couple of logs into the fire pit. She deliberated over starting the fire first or hounding Wilson. It took her only a moment of pondering. She narrowed her eyes in mock suspicion and aimed the lighter like a scepter of judgment at him. Wilson yelped and pitched backwards, his heels flying into the air.
"Careful whose face you're pointing that thing at!" Lying on a heap on the ground, he angled his arm in front of his nose to ward off any sudden blazes.
"Aren't you going to eat anything first?" Willow waved the lighter, looking like a nagging mother. "We're all hungry. You can't go two nights in a row refusing to eat like a—like a baby."
Someone snickered. It sounded more like a couple of huffy breaths. Wilson was sure it was Wendy.
"I've been baking in the sun for ten hours." Gathering his dignity, he stood up and brushed dried bits of grass from his clothes. Adjusting his collar, he said with as much pride as he could muster, "I'd rather not fry in a bonfire."
"Are you trying to avoid my cooking?"
Wilson froze like someone who had gotten up for a bathroom break at midnight and heard footsteps behind them. He glanced from side to side before blurting, "I can make charcoal out of my own food!"
It came out much louder than he intended. A redbird that had been inspecting seeds a few yards away squawked and shot into the air with a burst of red feather confetti.
Silence. Wilson felt that he was suffocating in the indescribable impression that everyone in this camp wanted to see if they could goad him into losing his mind.
"Good night!" This came out louder than he thought as well. He clamped his mouth shut before he alerted some behemoth creature of their presence and it lumbered out of the woods to devour them all. Which would, inevitably, be blamed on him. God, these people had sworn oaths with each other to blame every accident or mishap on him. He felt it.
He turned, pretending to inspect some fallen leaves for a minute. He meandered on a little farther, this time to examine a trampled flower. Refusing to bolt to the tent like a frightened rabbit, he continued edging toward the tent as if he just happened to follow that path as he inspected various rocks and sticks and mushrooms. Everyone watched him in silent amazement.
He held his breath until finally he stepped within a foot of the tent. Not wanting to peek over his shoulder to check if he still had an audience, he assumed he did. He made an exaggerated show of pretending he bumped into the tent by chance, like meeting an old teacher at the drugstore.
"Fancy meeting you here!" Wilson wanted to say. He reached out, slowly, and grasped the flaps of the tent as if taking the gentle hands of a damsel. He then ripped them open with such force that something tore, and dove into the tent to yank the flaps shut.
Finally. Solitude and privacy.
He paused a moment. He wondered if he'd misinterpreted the last glimpse he'd gotten of the others. Mulling it over, he relented and pulled open the flaps a slit. Willow stood by the fire pit, doubled over with her arms locked around her waist to keep her sides from splitting with laughter.
Oh, good, he thought. He'd entertained them. Safe inside the darkness of the tent, he rolled his eyes.
He'd only began encountering other lost wanderers within the past couple of weeks. Since then, he had picked up a chatty pyromaniac, a musclebound circus sideshow, a haunted little wisp of a girl, and a scraggly mime who had an appetite like a sixteen-year-old during a growth spurt. They had all stuck with him like burrs on a stray dog. He still hadn't gotten used to so much company after months of hearing no voices but the thoughts in his own head.
He liked to think himself capable, but he wasn't sure he was giving that impression considering how cheeky they were with him.
When he was alone, he could admire how intelligent and brave his decisions were and how clever and innovative he was. For some reason, these people hadn't caught onto these qualities yet. They had quickly established themselves in his camp and felt quite at home enough to take liberty in criticizing him. And teasing him. And laughing at his social gaffes. It peeved him how they would howl at something he said that he thought was innocuous, but wouldn't even sniff when he delivered a solid pun. He had to nurse his wounded pride every time a joke landed cold as a glacier.
Well . . . everyone behaved so except the bedraggled mime, at least. The mime smiled an odd lopsided nervous smile whenever the others laughed. In all fairness he smiled at everything in a placating way as though he half expected to be hit. Wilson wasn't keen on giving him too much benefit of the doubt. People with wishy-washy smiles irked him.
He sighed and sank down to the rough beefalo-hair carpet spread over the ground. The stale scent of dust and dirt made the air in the tent heavy. Before the other wanderers had joined him, he'd avoided resigning himself to a night in the tent until he was so exhausted his brains wobbled like pudding in his skull. He coveted sleep, but he had learned to be cautious. One night of carelessly falling asleep only to awake to a snuffed-out fire and slavering hounds tearing at him was enough to teach him to never make that mistake again.
But, he thought, with several other people outside laying around a fire like strips of bacon in a skillet, there would be ample distraction for ravenous hounds. Enough distraction to give him time to run, at any rate.
Maybe he would sleep for a few hours.
Wilson jolted awake with a ragged snort and sat upright stiff as an oak board. He looked around with fog of sleep swirling through his eyes and his heart following the rhythm of a mariachi band behind his ribs.
What had startled him awake? Hounds? Spiders? Shadows?
Or the wind. Wilson's shoulders slumped when he relaxed. The wind clacked the birchnut branches together overhead like drumsticks. Each crack echoed through the night sharp as a gunshot.
As he roused further awake, Wilson realized his face felt like plastic. He put his hand to his cheek and grimaced. During his sleep he had drooled, and it had pasted his stubble flat and sticky against his skin. Yuck, he thought. He hoped he could dunk his head into the river before Willow saw him. A quick shave wouldn't hurt either.
He crawled to the front of the tent and moved the flap. The instant he did, a blinding white glare of light cut through the opening like a blade. Wilson snapped back and squeezed his eyes shut, but not before multicolored sequins exploded in starbursts behind his closed lids.
He hadn't expected the full moon. He squinted and leaned out of the tent. Everything glowed an eerie silver. The fire in the pit had died, leaving a few red embers. Willow, Wolfgang, and Wendy were all asleep, laid out on straw bedrolls around the empty fire pit. Wilson thought they were either quite brave or stupid to sleep with nobody standing watch. He supposed it was best not to have expectations too high of them.
Wait. Wilson paused for a recount. Willow lay on her stomach, clutching her ragged teddy bear in her outstretched hand. Wolfgang sprawled over his bedroll, looking as big and solid as a mountain. He snored. Wendy lay a few feet away on her back, her hands folded over her chest like a corpse.
Where was Wes?
Wilson picked through the cottonfield of drowsiness that still lingered in his head, trying to remember when he'd last seen the mime. Hours? It'd been hours. A day?
Wilson never knew where Wes went. Wes always tried to pantomime an explanation, but Wilson didn't understand those gesticulations any more than he understood Swahili. Was Wes planning to go pick daisies in a forest clearing? Was he going to search for the Kingdom of the Bunnymen? Was he headed to Mars? Wilson never had a clue. He didn't care one way or the other.
A thought struck him. With the full moon nullifying the need for cumbersome torches, Wes could have raided supplies while Wilson slept and tore a trail through the woods before anyone woke. Wes was always too intent on chasing catcoons and picking wildflowers to gather anything himself—he was the proverbial grasshopper among ants. Of course it would be easier to ransack a chest Wilson had already filled.
Panic hit like a flash of lightning. Wilson stumbled out of the tent, regained his footing, and bolted to where the ramshackle pinewood chest sat next to a tree. He dropped to his knees and shoved the chest open, nearly yanking the lid from its rickety hinges. While he pawed through its contents in a frenzy at first, he calmed when he found that the contents were undisturbed.
Well, it had been undisturbed. It was a little disturbed now.
Wilson shut the chest and stood. Surely Wes hadn't actually left to wander on his own, then. Maybe that was giving him too much credit. But then again, Wilson thought, the kid was a hopeless romantic who would rather tuck a buttercup behind the ear of a monster than brandish an axe to defend himself. Perhaps Wes wasn't thinking about the dangers that leered in the dark.
Somehow that idea gave Wilson an itch of discomfort. If any of the others wandered away, he wouldn't waste the energy to blink with concern. Willow would burn down three-quarters of a map before she succumbed to a monster's claw. Wolfgang could arm wrestle a lion and its father and uncle all at once. Even Wendy, a blonde toothpick in penny loafers, feared nothing, and with that strange flower clutched in her white hands seemed to taunt death. Wilson thought that if he were death he'd fear her too.
But Wes had nothing to convince anyone he should be left to live. He was adept with balloon-tying, but that wasn't likely to impress a hungry hound.
Wilson heaved a groan and sat on the cold dewy ground. Why did he let himself think about these things? His life had been easier before all these reckless people had invaded it. Of course he had lived every day escaping death by a thread, starving or freezing and gathering what he could to survive, but at least he hadn't had anyone to look after or worry about.
He pressed his hand to his face with a sigh, then realized his cheek was still sticky. He glanced over at where the others slept.
He'd go find a nearby pool to wash his face in, and if he happened to find Wes on his way, that was a problem solved. If his absence could be considered a problem, at any rate. And if he didn't find Wes, that just meant his company would be meager-er . . . er. He wouldn't go gray fretting about it.
He stood and headed for the trail leading through the dense woods. After many trips back and forth, he'd trampled down the underbrush into a cushiony path that made treks more comfortable. As he walked, he pushed aside leaves and branches that dangled in his way. The moonlight shining through the treetops scattered diamonds over the ground.
Wilson only realized how quiet it was when a solid splash echoed through the night air. He froze. A frog diving into a pond? He listened. More splashing, almost rhythmic. God, that must be a really big frog.
He pushed his way through the bushes and branches toward the sound of splashing. Playing Marco Polo with a frog, he thought. It wasn't the worst way to spend a night.
He plunged his hands into a particularly thick hedge of berry bushes and parted the dense leaves. Hidden behind the bushes was a clearing. Wilson blinked in surprise.
Flowers dotted the grass like jewels. Low-hanging branches and vines created a curtain around the clearing as though it were a stage. In the midst of the clearing was a small pond surrounded by cattails, but the splashing that had drawn Wilson wasn't due to frog acrobatics.
The blood drained from Wilson's face. He stared.
Wes stood in the pool. The silvery water rippled around his waist, scattering his reflection and breaking it into millions of sequins of color. He dipped his cupped palms into the water, scooped up handfuls, and rubbed it into his hair. As the water streamed down his face, it rinsed away the remnants of face paint. Streaks of white and red trailed in ribbons down his neck, over his shoulders, and dripped from his elbows to cloud the water.
It occurred to Wilson that he should look away. Even better, he should turn his head, step backwards, and retreat all the way back to zip himself up in the tent for another four or five hours. The thought rolled around in his head like a single dry bean in a tin can, absolutely worthless.
Wilson kept staring, narrowing his eyes into squints. Wes looked like a different person without his face caked in dirt and paint. His cheeks were ruddy and crisscrossed with faint scars. Even from a few feet away, Wilson could see the splash of freckles that went across his nose. The moonlight gave his dark skin a glow and made every drop of water on him glitter like he was dusted with stars.
Wilson pushed his hand to his face and averted his gaze. When he did, the twigs and branches he had been holding to the side snapped back into place with a rustle and a crack of racket. Wilson tore both his hands back with a gasp before he could stop himself. He looked up just in time to see Wes whirl around.
The weight of the water sloshing around Wes made him lose his footing. He whipped his arms out to catch himself, and his eyes widened like tea saucers before he stumbled. The crash of his body into the water sounded loud as thunder in the silence. A spray of water showered, sparkling in the moonlight.
Wes flailed underwater for a fraction of a second before clawing his way to the surface again. He got to his feet, coughing and hacking slimy pondwater.
Wilson stared, hands outstretched. Wes stared back through his sopping stringy bangs. He held his arms out, water pouring off him in algae-clumped rivulets. All at once, he realized, and flung his arms over his chest to hide himself.
"Uh . . . 'water' way to go, huh?"
The weak joke that came instead of scolding or shouting startled Wes. He slowly straightened up, not once breaking eye contact. He wiped his sticky hair out of his face with one hand and looked at Wilson as though he were an alien that had been beamed down from Jupiter.
Wilson scraped his brain like a honeycomb for something suitable to say. Something that wouldn't sound characteristic of a voyeur who crept around in the dead stillness of night to watch people bathe in frog ponds. He tried to smile. If he'd realized he looked like a snarling borzoi he would have immediately sobered.
"I was . . . on a walk," he said. "I thought some cold water might wake me up. Busy day tomorrow and all."
Wes looked to the side, as though a clump of reeds was far more interesting than Wilson could ever hope to be. He drew his arms tighter across his front and shrank back.
"Oh, geez," Wilson muttered. Then aloud: "I'm not looking. I'm here for a shave. What'd you do with your clothes, anyway?"
Wes pointed. Wilson stepped over to the clot of reeds around the edge of the pond and retrieved Wes's neatly folded clothes. He dropped them unceremoniously on the bank of the pond.
"Piece yourself on out of here if you want. Everyone else is still asleep at camp."
Wilson left Wes. He made a point of walking to the other side of the pond before he got on his knees in the black mud. With Wes watching in confusion, Wilson slapped the cool water onto his face and shook his head like a soaked dog.
Just to make conversation, Wilson said, "Is this what you tend to do when you wander off?" He rubbed his forearm over his eyes to scour away the water. Then, turning his back to Wes, he crouched and fumbled in his pocket for the makeshift flint razor. He waited for a response, poising the crooked blade against his jaw.
Silence.
A flash of annoyance lit Wilson and festered an instant before he remembered.
"Oh."
He scooted around to face Wes again and raised his eyebrows pointedly.
Wes nodded.
"You always come to bathe?" Wilson leaned over the pond to examine his reflection as he scraped his stubble. "Or do you like being alone?"
He glanced back to see Wes shrug. Wilson gathered that it was more an acknowledgement of the question than an actual answer.
"I see."
A heavier silence. The conversation felt like tossing an anvil back and forth.
Wilson felt awkward as he bored his eyes into the water to keep himself from looking at Wes while Wes waded to the bank. The second he could reach his clothes, Wes snatched them to crush them to his chest and appeared as trapped as a mouse in a corner. He huddled by the bank, dripping like a sheet on a laundry line.
A pang struck Wilson a little above and to the left of his heart. Acid reflux, Wilson thought. He dismissed it. It definitely wasn't embarrassment, and it certainly wasn't guilt. There was no possibility of his feeling guilty for causing Wes such distress and humiliation. Not at all, he told himself. He peered over his shoulder and caught the faltering expression of anguish on Wes's face.
Wilson sighed a long, thin sigh through his nose. He cast the razor onto the mud and began working loose the buttons down his vest. After unfastening the last one, he shrugged out of the vest, and shoved it in Wes's general direction.
"Here," he said, the vest dangling from his fist. "Towel off. I bet you're absolutely 'drying' to get dry. That breeze coming through is a little bitey."
Wes regarded the offer with brief suspicion. Hesitantly he reached up to take the rumpled vest. His fingers knocked against Wilson's as he did. Instead of yanking away, he lingered a moment, then put his hand over Wilson's with a timid smile.
Wilson construed this as thanks. He pushed the vest into Wes's face again. Wes accepted. The water was cold on Wilson's knuckles where Wes had touched him.
"I'm turning around," Wilson announced, swiping his hand dry on his pants. "Make it quick. I'm starting to get hungry, and I'd kind of like us to snag our breakfast before the others wake up and ask me what I'm making."
Wes squinted. He surveyed Wilson with curiosity. Wilson wondered what sort of rubbish he could possibly have spewed without intending until Wes pointed to himself, then at Wilson.
It took a second for the gesture to connect with a question.
"Oh," Wilson said. "Uh . . . sure. I'm walking you back. You think I'm going to give you the chance to run off again already? If I come out of the woods and you're still gone, Willow will laugh and ask me if I killed you."
Wes's eyes widened. Wilson considered that perhaps he shouldn't have brought up the subject of killing Wes. He cleared his throat with a few curt coughs and politely turned away with his hands tucked behind his back. He rocked on his heels, listening to the splashing of Wes clambering out of the water and the rustling of his scrubbing the vest over his hair.
Wilson passed the time watching fireflies blink in the air and leaves skitter over the ground in the breeze. He almost dozed off when a tap on his shoulder made him nearly choke on his tonsils and clamp his knees together.
He spun around, grinding dirt beneath his heel, to find his nose a few inches from Wes's chest. He noticed how the threadbare striped cotton clung like an adhesive bandage to his wet skin and stuck to every line and slant. Sometimes he detested how practicing science had honed his observational skills. Instinctively he elbowed Wes back a few steps, out of his personal space.
"Are you good now?" he asked, propping his fists on his hips. With that same shy smile, Wes nodded.
"Good. Now where's my-" Wilson paused. His gaze lowered a bit. He realized that Wes had purposed his vest into more than a throwaway towel. Now the vest hung loose and limp from Wes's gaunt frame.
Wilson opened his mouth to say something, then snapped his teeth together with a reverberating click. His jaw wasn't strong enough to hold in his need to talk, however, and to hide his awkwardness he instead blurted, "You've—I've—uh, you've got something in your hair."
Wes glanced up. He thrust his fingers into his hair to comb through the strands a few times. Wilson shook his head with a little too much energy, all too eager to have attention on something else.
"Nah," he said. "C'mere."
Obediently, Wes bent forward until he was level with Wilson's nose. Somewhat offended that Wes had to stoop so far to be within reach, Wilson struggled to think of a proper reaction. Maybe after this he would eat a few handfuls of dirt in hopes of developing tetanus. If his mouth locked shut, he'd have no more chances of sliding into awkward situations like an ant into a lacewing pit.
Wilson sighed again. Abandoning tact, he shoved his fingers into Wes's hair. The strands, still damp and cold, were so soft against Wilson's hands that it startled him. He'd forgotten how freshly washed hair felt. Softer than feathers-even softer than cottony plush rabbit hide. Wilson hadn't touched something so pleasant in . . . he couldn't remember.
Lost in reverie, he buried his fingers deep into Wes's hair and rubbed. He would never be able to explain how all the tension in his body faded, leaving him more relaxed than he'd felt in a long time. His eyelids drooped. His hands went limp.
Little clouds of fog drifted through his vision in lazy curlicues. Fairy floss rolled through his brain, downy and sugary. He blinked hard. When his eyes focused, he realized that Wes was staring up at him through his bangs.
"Oh." Wilson jerked back his hands, waving them in nervous disgust as if he'd just pulled back from a spider. "It was, uh, a leaf."
He gave his most winning smile, which wasn't particularly winsome, but achieved the desired effect. He stepped back, and Wes straightened. His hair was tufted in all directions where Wilson had dreamily tousled it. With wild ruffled hair and a face free of paint, Wes looked windblown, almost rugged, and somehow not as cowardly or sycophantic. Even his smile seemed more genuine, albeit still shy, without the lopsided heart of lipstick to accentuate it.
Wilson wondered if any of the others had seen Wes like this. There was the oddest sense of familiarity-though he by no means felt any more inclined to be friends with Wes, he somehow felt more at ease around him. Closer, as if they'd known each other for far longer than a couple of weeks.
Strangely, Wilson hoped none of the others would feel this way.
He shook his head. Turning, he gave a brisk wave for Wes to follow him.
"Let's go, Hush-Hush. I'll make breakfast while you doll up. There's a couple of eggs I've been saving in the trunk if nobody's dug them up yet. If we hurry we'll be done before the others wake up."
Wilson marched on through the woods with the air of an experienced woodsman, shoving aside branches and vines and crunching leaves under his feet.
Wes watched him for a while. His smile went a little more lopsided, a little more wistful.
He followed Wilson, leaving the pool in the clearing to shimmer like a mirror as if it had never been disturbed.