He awoke to the sound of rain. He opened his eyes to a gray room and glanced at the clock. 5:30. Ever since the crash he has always woken up at five thirty. That was when the mosquitoes would stop their feverish attack on his flesh. He remembers them clearly, the way they swarmed every bit of bare skin. He remembers all of it: the porcupine, the crazed moose, and the fool birds. Even the taste of the tart gut cherries still stung his mouth. He remembers it like it was yesterday.
Four years ago today, Brian Robeson was rescued by a pilot after been stranded in the Canadian wilderness for fifty-four days.
Brian pulled off his bed sheets and swung his legs over the edge of his bed. Bus comes in an hour. I can't be late today. He rubbed his eyes and wandered into the bathroom. He looks into the mirror at his reflection. The body in the mirror is solid and defined, a result of his battle with nature. There are scars scattered about his torso, some from the crash, some from the moose. A rough hand moves to investigate the square jaw. I need to shave. The hand is then pulled through his hair in a half –hearted attempt to put the mess in order. He then brushes his teeth and splashes cool water against his face.
Back in his room he finds a shirt and pulls it over his head. Rugged blue jeans follow. Down the hallway his mother calls.
"Brian let's go. The world isn't going to wait for you, let alone the bus. You know I need the car today."
Brian grunts. Mother's face and images of her in that station wagon with the man rush through his head. He shakes the images away. My Secret. Your Secret. Never tell him, he can never know…never. His mother was waiting in the kitchen with toast.
"Hurry up and eat it. Get going."
The toast is quickly consumed and Brian kisses his mother on the cheek. He rushes downstairs and out the door of the old apartment building. The city shivers in the new winds of fall. It's a quiet Monday with few cars. An enthusiastic jogger runs by in her spandex shorts, the faint noise of her music becomes apparent as she runs by. Doors click and birds chirp. Even the rustlings of leaves down the street reach his ears. The forest has made my ears sharp. People miss the small sounds of bugs in the gutters or leaves on the ground. He looks back to the jogger, now two streets down. She will never know true silence. Not with music blasting in her ears like that. A few hours alone in silence and her ears will ring from the absence of city buzz. A dirty yellow bus pulls up alongside the narrow street in front of him.
"Brian Robeson?" The driver asked. She was an older woman with yellow blonde hair. Her expression was neither kind nor cruel, she was there to do her job and that was all.
"Yeah."
"Then hop on and find a seat."
He nods his response and climbs on. He wanders down a few rows and finds an empty seat, placing his bag on the floor. Most of the students have music in their ears and a few are texting. A group of girls, presumably freshman, giggle in the back. Brian turns to the grimy window. Brick apartments flash by along with corner shops and a few cemeteries. The bus stops regularly and more students climb on, the noises of conversation growing louder each time. Brian closes his eyes and listens to the different conversations nearby.
"Did you hear about Jay's party last week? Total fall through. I mean, why did we even go?"
"God I can't believe it's September already. It's too friggin cold."
"Do any of you have Anderson's second hour? I heard his class sucks."
The conversations fade as Brian drifts into sleep, his head propped against the window. He began to dream of the woods.
"I heard your emergency transmitter—then I saw the plane when I came over… Damn. You're him aren't you? You're that kid? They quit looking, a month, no, almost two months ago. You're him aren't you? You're that kid…"