A/N:

Hey, guys, just a little note to tell you that everything in this story is purposeful and very planned out. Arnold may seem OOC, the OCs might seem pointless, or you may have tons of unanswered questions, but we've got a long way to go yet. Everything is intentional. Just trust me.

Chapter 12:

Just when I think it can't possibly get any worse or any more miserable, something has to prove me wrong. And in this case…it's the weather. Gray skies hover over the jungle casting a grayish hue around us. Mud is everywhere. Everywhere.

Not too bad, you'd think, right? But consider this: the rain doesn't even bring reprieve from the clingy moisture of humidity. In fact, it makes it worse instead. Now, because of the rain, we have to wear jeans and jackets. The extra clothing just sticks to me like a gooey slug on a rock, which just makes me feel increasingly tenser and more stressed out. Even the refreshing smell of the clean air and damp earth does little to make me feel better.

Thanks, Mother Nature. You're a real peach.

I think I liked Egypt better. At least 99/100 days you could expect sun and dry heat. This wet, unpredictable jungle crap is something else. It's not for me. Who wants to feel like they just stepped out of the shower all the time?

But, for the moment, at least, the rain is staying up in those dark, looming clouds. And we're under semi-decent coverage in the temple ruins. Everyone's quietly eating, tired from a long morning of hard work, but as usual, Soren can't let that happen for long.

"What are Mr. America's abilities?" Soren asks, tapping me on the shoulder to get my attention.

I squint at him in confusion. "Who?"

"Mr. America. What are his abilities?" he repeats, rolling his eyes like I'm some kind of an idiot.

"Do you mean Captain America?" I reply, squinting in confusion at him.

"Yah, sure, whatever. What are Captain America's abilities? I mean what's so great about the guy? So he has a shield—big whoop," he says with an unimpressed grimace.

"Well, he basically becomes a super soldier—amplified strength and speed—that kind of thing," Antoinette explains before taking a bit of her sandwich.

"So again, I ask you…what's so great about the guy?"

"You mean besides the fact that he's the zenith of natural human potential?" Richard exclaims in exasperation, and rolls his eyes in disgust that someone would blunder so badly when it came to superhero trivia. The look in his eyes reveals he's barely restraining the urge to strangle Soren.

"I could take him," Soren retorts, flexing his biceps and crossing his arms across his broad chest.

I don't know what it is about this conversation, but I only find it asininely annoying. Maybe it's the weather. Maybe it's the fact that the girl I love is miles away from me at the moment.

"I highly doubt that!" Richard scoffs, glaring at Soren, that dangerous look still in his eyes.

"I totally could," Soren repeats, moving to stand over Richard intimidatingly. "Go ahead, ask Sandy."

"Whatever you put your mind to, you can do, babe," Sandy replies, not even looking up from the book she's reading.

Soren smiles proudly and looks back at Richard. "See?"

"I think she was being sarcastic," I state, hoping to put an end to this ridiculousness.

"Whatever," Soren replies casually.

"This explains how your marriage works," Richard mocks with an irritated eye-roll.

"You're just jealous." Soren waves Richard off before sitting back down next to Sandy and grabbing his lunch again.

"Of Captain America maybe, not you," Richard sneers.

Soren ignores him and reaches into Sandy's bag, pulling out a candy bar.

"Hey! Where'd you get that?" Antoinette whines, gazing longingly at it. Sandy always has chocolate, I'm not sure why Antoinette is surprised. Seriously, what's up with them today?

"From Sandy's lunch," Soren states, obviously missing her true meaning.

"No, how or when?"

"Oh, when I was in town dropping Helga off I bought some," he explains before taking another bite. "Speaking of which, there was kind of a lot of drama going on."

"What do you mean? Between you and Helga?" I ask, slightly perturbed.

"Well, yah, now that you mention it, there was that too," he says, scratching his head thoughtfully. "She kept telling me I was driving too slow and I told her I was going the speed limit. But then she yelled at me and said there was no speed limit."

"Helga yelled at you?" Sandy questions, finally looking up from her book to raise a sharp brow at her husband. "I highly doubt that."

"Actually knowing Helga Pataki it's very possible," I reply.

"See? She did yell at me!" he defends, returning her skeptical look.

"Mmm-hmm," she replies, unconvinced, before looking back down at her book.

"Whatever," he mumbles in irritation. "That wasn't my point anyway. There was drama in the town. Like, just in general. I heard there was something going on and you could totally feel that the vibe was different. I mean there weren't even chickens running around all over the place like usual. And I swear this old woman was glaring at me through her window."

"Maybe she was staring at your face thinking your scruff's getting way too long and you should probably shave," Sandy states, squinting at him dramatically.

"Har har. I told you I'd shave tonight."

"Look, I'm sure you were just imagining it, honey," Sandy says, putting a comforting hand on his leg.

"I wasn't. I'm serious. Something's about to go down. I'm calling it now."

The idea of something bad happening in town while Helga's there freaks me out more than the fact that I don't believe him. "You don't know what you're talking about," I reply.

"He so rarely does," Sandy states with a tired voice.

"Come on, Sandy, you know I'm serious," Soren says, turning to her with a betrayed expression on his face.

"What about last week when you said you heard voices talking in the middle of the night?" she replies with a dramatic eye roll.

"But I did!" he exclaims, obviously offended that no one believes him.

"Even if you did hear voices, it was probably one of us," I tell him, wondering when Soren got so paranoid. The possibility of hearing voices at night is so high, considering there are so many of us at the campsite.

"Hey, Arnold, are you sure we should stay and work? Those clouds look pretty ominous," Antoinette comments, twisting her head at an angle to gaze out of the tall, slanted windows of the temple's main room.

"Antoinette," I begin, trying to keep my voice void of the sudden, uncontrollable annoyance I feel, "we're in the rainforest. If we stop working every time it might rain we might as well quit this whole thing and head back to the states."

She frowns at me, crossing her arms across her chest. "You don't need to get snappy, Arnold, it was a legitimate question. I don't want it to rain so hard that it floods the chamber or something and then we get drowned in the tomb of some evil dead guy."

"There are less…poetic ways to go," Richard comments, sidling up to Antoinette.

"There's nothing poetic about drowning," she replies, snatching an apple piece from the lunch box on his lap and immediately takes a bite. "I can think of hundreds of ways I'd rather spend my time than inescapable death and a few of them have you in those scenarios." I watch, stunned, as she throws him a wink.

Okay, so, I think I've missed something. There may be a huge possibility that I was a little too preoccupied with thoughts of Helga since she arrived to notice this slight change. Richard's flirting with Antoinette—scooting tightly next to her and…she isn't moving away. In fact, she's even giving him the nicest smile in return. All I feel now is intense confusion. When did this happen? When did she stop avoiding him and instead start encouraging him? And if Antoinette's open to his advances, why is he still leaving flowers for Helga? None of this makes any sense.

Of course, maybe it isn't Richard who's leaving flowers…but if it's not him, then that really doesn't leave many other options, a fact that just makes my head spin even more. I grit my teeth tightly, the muscles working furiously in my jaw as my mind immediately turns to Helga—and my heart twinges from how much I miss her. And maybe from the fact that I'm afraid she'll never come back.

It's also been so long since I've had one of my visions that I'm starting to jump at every sound. Sleep has also escaped me since I'm more terrified of the vision I had while asleep than any I've had before. Not to mention the fact that Helga put all my fears into place that these aren't simple daydreams. And now, having been validated by her words, I'm more freaked than before.

I can't believe I spilt my guts to Helga. I'm not a talker. I'm not someone who shares their emotions and fears with anyone. I prefer to keep it all close to my chest and instead listen and help others with theirs. Even though Soren and Sandy have been a part of my life for a long time. I've never really confided in them. Only on a surface level when I have to—or am forced to. I never go deep in to my feelings or worries. I've never told them my deepest fears—those aching feelings deep inside that I try to hide from even myself. Even Gerald, the guy who was my best friend since childhood, isn't aware of them.

Gerald. I should reach out to him. But what's the point really? He doesn't reach out to me. It's almost like he's moved on from our long history of friendship. Does he really even care anymore? Probably not. We've hardly spoken since his wedding five years ago.

I haven't spoken to anybody else from Hillwood since I left either. I mean Susie Kakashka emails me updates on the boarding house and the tenants, but I only answer her once in a great while— and mostly just so she knows her boss isn't dead. The boarders email me—but only to whine or complain about each other or the boarding house. Not for any real reason or because they miss me or are worried about me.

So, ultimately, I am alone. But sometimes I think it's better this way. With people comes frustration, heartache, and betrayal. We live in a selfish, fast-paced world—no one really cares about me. They talk to me because they need something. That's really all people do anymore: use each other. And once they get what they need, they leave. Once I'm not enough to keep them close or keep them interested…they just leave. It's just a lesson I've learned over and over again.

Since she's left I've literally thrown myself into my work—just like I used to back in college. I focus so intently on my work that the conversations around me are like background music—hardly noticeable at all. I don't want to feel this ache in my heart or this fear in my mind. I just want some hard work.

See? There I go again—thinking too much. Getting all…whatever this feeling is. That's why distraction has been my friend. I don't have to think about my loneliness or the possibility that Helga may never come back. Thankfully, archeology is full of exhaustive, all-encompassing work—digging, transcribing, photographing, cataloging, gathering samples, carbon dating, and the list goes on. All things that we haven't been doing much of since Helga's arrival. I've gotten very lackadaisical and infatuated and now we're behind. My chest hurts, not to mention my jaw—why do I keep clenching it so tightly?

I look up when I hear laughter from the others. What were they talking about? I glance down at my watch and realize the time. Awesome, we can get back to work and I can stop thinking.

"Alright, guys, let's get back to it," I direct, waving at them to get their attention.

"Wait, what?" Antoinette asks, her eyes wide with confusion.

"I said, 'let's get back to work'," I reply, me lip curling up at the corners in annoyance.

The rest of the group exchanges glances before grabbing their lunches and cleaning up the area.

Soren steps in front of me in a military stance and salutes. "Yes, sir!"

I can't tell if he's just being amusing or if there's more to his manner than that. "What?" I raise an eyebrow at him.

He shrugs and looks down at me with arched brows. "I said, 'yes, sir'. I mean you've been acting like such a drill sergeant for at least a week, so I thought maybe that's what you wanted."

"Soren." Sandy's tone speaks volumes as she places a hand of warning on his shoulder.

I heave an irritated sigh. "What are you talking about? How am I any different than usual? Someone has to keep you guys on top of work."

Sandy sucks in a breath of surprise and Soren narrows his eyes at me, pushing his face into my own. "Seriously, Arnold? We've known you for six years and we've been working for you for three, and you've never had to tell us to work hard. You know perfectly well we're all hard workers—well, except for maybe Richard—"

"Hey!" Richard yells from where he's still sitting up against the wall, calmly eating his sandwich, and showing no signs of packing up his stuff.

Soren waves him off and continues, his brows clenched together in a tight line. "The tension on his dig is horrible! And we're not dumb, Arnold. We know what's causing it."

"Hush, Soren," Antoinette reprimands. "It's not our place. Apparently, we're only his employees, not his friends."

"Soren's right!" Richard exclaims, coming to stand right in front of me with the rest of them. "Even though I don't know Arnold as well as you guys, I do know he's been a real butthead."

Even though, deep down, I know that maybe—just maybe—they have a point, it's ticking me off that they are just shouting it at me. Like usual no one's concerned about my feelings or what I'm dealing with. No one's thinking maybe there's a deeper reason I've turned into such a workaholic. No one's giving me the hug or deep human connection that I desperately want right now. All they know is that I've supposedly been a "butthead" the past few days and it's throwing off their groove.

"I'm right here, Richard!" I growl, throwing my hands up in the air in exasperation. "Look, why don't I leave you guys so you can keep talking about me until your heart's content. Figure out what's wrong with me and let me know. Later."

With that I stride off toward the campsite, refusing to look back. I don't need to; I can feel their eyes watching me as I march away. Who cares if the skies decided that right now—at this exact moment—it's the perfect time to suddenly dump buckets of water down on me and soak me to the bone? It's hard to see with all the rain and sudden dark overcast, but I keep trudging through the mud until I reach the campsite. Kicking a bucket as hard as I can, I plop down onto a wet log by the rained-out fire pit.

I'm so wet at this point I'm dripping water as much as it's raining. But who cares. I could catch pneumonia and die and no one would care. And besides is that even a thing? Can you catch pneumonia just from being in the bad weather? I feel like that's likely just a wives' tale or something.

The rain pings and patters on things around me—pots, pans, buckets, tools, the generator—making its own kind of music that is surprisingly soothing to my aching soul. Like a ballad version of that song the gorillas in Tarzan make when they're trashing the camp. I kind of feel like trashing this camp…maybe I'd feel better after letting all my emotions out.

A body-jolting shiver works its way up my spine and I wrap my arms around myself tightly. Okay, so maybe sitting out in this pouring rain wasn't the best idea.

"Arnold?" A soft hand lands on my shoulder and squeezes gently.

I cringe at the sound of a voice. I really just want to be alone in my misery for once. I don't want to be forced to cheer up or look on the bright side. Just this once. Is that too much to ask?

"What?" I snap, not even turning around.

I can feel Sandy's hand recoil in shock, before she comes to stand in front of me. I can feel her eyes boring into me, but I keep my own looking down, staring at her mud-splattered boots, watching as her jeans darken by the second as the downpour soaks them.

"You didn't eat anything. Was something wrong with the sandwiches?" Her voice is calm, and reserved, and about as casual as can be. As if I didn't just snap and almost bite her head off.

Of course nothing is wrong with her sandwiches. Her sandwiches are just as amazing as everything else she cooks. I just didn't want to. "Of course not," I reply, finally meeting her eyes. Water trickles off her nose and drips through her hair and I suddenly feel bad that I made her get saturated by the rain water as well.

"Well, I noticed you didn't eat anything. Why don't you eat one now? You know I worry about you guys when you don't eat." She pulls out a bag with a soggy sandwich in it. "Oh, well, this one's a no go, but I've got some more in our tent. Just come sit inside, you're going to get sick from getting so wet." Without waiting for a response she steps into her tent, expecting me to follow.

But I'm not sure I want to follow her. I could just sit here and wallow in my gloom and ignore the fact that I'm literally soaked to the bone. Or I could go some place dry and have something to eat.

An intense shiver and a loud growling from my stomach makes the decision for me, however. The Hotchners' tent is one of those multi-room ones—three rooms to be exact. One to the left side has the boys' cots and toys, one to the right is where Sandy and Soren sleep, and the center one is their living area. It's a bit messy—which drives Soren nuts, but Sandy legitimately can't keep it organized. Her brain just doesn't work that way, but his does. It's caused a few tiffs between them, but in the end, it's each other's quirks and strengths that keep them together.

After taking my muddy boots off I scan the room, looking for a place to sit. Spotting a chair with a pile of books, I move them aside and sit down.

Sandy appears in front of me, her hair still dripping and clinging to her face and that sliver of guilt snakes its way to my chest since it's my fault she's soaked. "Here you go," she smiles, handing me a plate with a sandwich, sliced apple, and cookie. "Eat your sandwich before your dessert," she teases before turning around and sliding off her coat. She puts it on the back of another chair and sits down, pulling out some paperwork. "I'm going to work on translating those hieroglyphs we copied yesterday." With one last friendly smile my way, she looks down at the papers and begins reading.

The rain outside falls onto the tent, making a soft drumming sound all around us. I take a bite of my sandwich, watching Sandy, waiting for her to say something—waiting for her to try to get me to talk about the outburst in the temple just a few minutes ago. Instead, she just writes something on the paper and continues reading, ignoring me completely.

"There's nothing to talk about," I state, taking another bite and watching her closely. Surely she's trying to get me to talk. That's usually her plan.

"Oh, I know," she replies, not even looking up from the paperwork.

There's another long pause. It's just me eating and her reading and scribbling a note or two on her paper here and there, and the rain continues to fall outside.

"We've gotten behind on our work here," I note, the silence between us beginning to bother me, even though it's obviously not bothering her one bit.

"I agree."

"I'm just trying to get us caught up on it, is all." I wonder if she'll buy that—if she'll believe it's just because of that and not because I'm missing and freaking out about Helga being gone. Sandy purses her lips, intent on reading her paperwork. I feel like trying to see if I can distract her from it. "And maybe," I begin leisurely, "it helps to distract myself in the process."

"Mmm-hmm." She sounds just as disinterested as before.

"I mean…she'll be back, right? She won't just…never come back…or…disappear."

"You mean like your parents did?" Sandy asks, finally looking up at me, placing her pencil behind her ear and setting the papers in her lap.

I blink realizing what just happened. "How do you do that? How do you always get me to talk even when I don't want to and have no intention of doing so?"

She folds her arms across her chest and leans back, a sly grin playing on her lips. "It's called the magic of being a born listener. Or you could look at it as a curse," she adds with a light voice, but her lips curve down at the end, hinting at something much more than just a joke.

"Well…I'm not sure I like it," I tease, trying to lighten the mood.

She laughs, before leaning forward and patting my arm gently. "Look, Arnold, I'm going to be straight with you. Helga is going to come back. She cares about you and she won't desert you. So don't worry about it so much."

I give her a false laugh. "Everyone always told me my parents cared about me too, but they never came back."

"Well, I'm sure they had every intention of coming back. Obviously something happened and there was no way they could. I'm sure they would have if they had been able to, Arnold."

It'd be nice to believe that. An icy chill runs through me as a sudden realization hits me. "Something could happen to Helga, too."

She pauses and looks straight in front of herself, deep in thought. Finally she turns back to me, green eyes full of sincerity. "Well, that's true—I won't deny it. But listen to me, Arnold, she is going to come back. I just know it."

I roll my eyes and sigh, leaning back in my chair. "You just know it? What makes you so sure?"

"I'm getting one of my vibes. And has my intuition ever been wrong?"

Sandy's vibes: her intuition. It's definitely something that's come up a bit since I've known her. Soren was her biggest skeptic until even he couldn't ignore it. In Egypt, we were about to hire an Arabic foreman from Luxor, but Sandy kept telling us she had really dark vibe about him. Even though Soren tried to pressure me into still hiring the guy, Sandy was just too insistent about it that I couldn't ignore it, and so I hired someone else. Besides, if she didn't like the guy, how could I expect her to work with him? About two weeks later, we heard he had been put in jail for stealing from a dig in the Valley of the Kings. And that hadn't been his first offense. Apparently, he had been stealing from digs for years. She didn't always verbalize that she had a "vibe", but when she did, especially when she was being serious, I tended to listen. Of course, it could have just been luck with her being right, but who really knows with that sort of thing?

"Well, no, you've never been wrong. All the same—"

"No. It's a fact. She's coming back. She cares about you. We've only got…what? Three more days until she's supposed to be back. You're going to be just fine. I promise you, you'll survive." She winks at me lightheartedly, reaching down to dig in a bag next to her. She pulls out two York peppermint patties and tosses one to me. "Stress relief."

I roll my eyes and smile. That woman always has chocolate hidden somewhere nearby. How she stays as skinny as she is, is beyond me. "Even if she does come…I don't know what do to."

Sandy watches me quietly for a moment. "You mean because you're in love with her?" she finally asks, her voice quiet and serious.

I joke on the chocolate piece in my mouth. "What?"

She reaches out patting me on the back. "Sorry, sweetie, but it's painfully obvious."

I can feel the heat rise to my cheeks. "Does everyone think that? Does Helga?" my voice rises nervously.

She purses her lips thoughtfully. "Well, remember, Arnold, I'm a people reader, so knowing these kind of things comes with the territory. But after the recent…incident today at the temple I'd guess the others probably suspect as much. And I can't say about Helga. She's a bit harder for me to read than the others. But I think she might."

I feel my heart drop to the pit of my stomach and close my eyes for a moment.

Sandy places a soft hand on my arm. "Would it really be so bad if she knows how you feel?"

I don't answer her question. I'm not even sure myself. "But what do I do about it?"

"Well, what do you want to do about it?" she asks, her green eyes watching me closely, trying to read me.

"I don't know."

She looks away, deep in thought again. Sometimes Sandy reminds me of the stories of the goddess Wadjet. Protector of Egypt—savior for Wadjmose and his family. Founder of the green eyes. Always watchful, wise, and always there to protect those around her.

She looks back at me again, her eyes pensive. "Arnold, what are you afraid of?"

I shake my head and glance away, hating that she was somehow reading my every feeling. "I don't know."

"Are you afraid of a broken heart?" She moves so that I have to look her in the eyes again. "It's not so bad. It hurts for a while, but it mends."

I cringe, remembering Helga's assumption from a few days ago about me supposedly breaking Sandy's heart back in college. How can you break someone's heart if you were never even given it in the first place? "You've had your heart broken?" I ask, trying not to sound as uncomfortable as I'm feeling.

"Once or twice," she shrugs. "It's part of life. But you can't let that hold you back. You can't let it keep you from taking the risk. It's worth it. I don't regret anything in my past that led to heartbreak—because I tried. I made an effort and it was worth it in one way or another. Most especially because it led me to the path I'm on now. Those risks I took, those chances, those times I gave my heart away whether blatantly or in secret led me to Soren—and I love him like no one I've ever loved before. If those experiences hadn't led me there I'd have never have met him, or married him, and we'd never have had our beautiful boys and lived this life." A few tears sneak down her cheeks as she looks me in the eyes again. "Don't ever fear the risk of heartbreak. One way or another it's always worth it."

"Who broke your heart?" I ask, still afraid Helga was right and I inadvertently broke Sandy's heart in the past.

Sandy breaks into amused laughter. "Does that really matter? Did you even understand my point?"

"I'm not afraid of heartbreak," I admit, finally.

"Then what are you afraid of? I can tell something's holding you back."

I bite my lip, waffling between telling her the truth or something else. But the way I can see her mind watching me and analyzing me…I don't think she'd fall for a lie. "I'm worried I won't be enough for her. I'm afraid she'll leave me…" my words falter and I stare at the tent wall.

"How much do you love her?"

"More than I've ever loved anyone," I answer honestly, surprised at my own admission.

"Then, Arnold, it's worth the risk of her leaving you. But I think you'll be enough. I think you are enough. You're amazing, and smart, and kind, and compassionate, and you share so many interests with her. You two compliment each other beautifully." She places her hand on my shoulder, forcing me to look back at her. "You deserve a lifetime of love in your life, Arnold. You deserve to always have people in your life who care for you. And most of all you deserve Helga—someone who will love you unconditionally and fill all those holes your parents left—"

I move to protest, but she cuts me off.

"You can deny it, Arnold, but they are there. People won't always leave you. We're still here, aren't we? Six years later and we're still with you. You've ordered us around for eight days straight and almost worked us to exhaustion, but we're still here. You are important, you are special, and we all care about you. And despite what you think, Helga cares about you. We aren't going anywhere, Arnold. And neither is Helga."

Even though I suddenly feel so exposed and vulnerable from her knowing so much of my feelings lately, I'm slightly comforted. Maybe Sandy's right. Her intuition hasn't been wrong yet. Maybe Helga will be fine and maybe she will come back. And maybe…just maybe giving her my heart will be worth whatever follows after.

Sandy glances down at her watch and smiles at me. "Now, since the rain has stopped, I should probably run and make sure Eduardo and the kids are okay. But listen, Arnold. Maybe lay off the militarist behavior for a while, okay?"

We both laugh as she slips her boots back on and steps out into the muddy jungle. Thank you, Sandy, for being the one to look on the bright side when I can't. Sometimes it's nice to have another optimist to keep a hurting one from falling too deep.

It's been a few days since my conversation with Sandy, and while I still feel a little better, the fear still pokes at my heart. I decided to spend the afternoon back at camp working on translations and organizing all the paperwork we've done so far. Some of the paperwork's gotten a little disorganized and if don't fix it now it's going to be huge mess later.

Splashing sounds and an engine fill the campsite and I glance up to see Eduardo pulling up in the jeep. For the moment the rain seems to have stopped, but the cloud covering and mud have remained. Eduardo puts the jeep in park and jumps out, splashing down into the muddy soil. The supplies he went for fill the back of the jeep. Dropping the papers I'd been working on into my tent, I jog over, avoiding the muddy puddles as best I can.

"¡Hola, Eduardo!" I call when I've almost reached him. "Need a hand?"

"Sí, Arnold. Gracias," he replies gesturing to the boxes in the back of the jeep. "¡Rápido! Before the rain comes again," he adds looking up at the still dark skies. They've been overcast for three days straight. We must be in the rainy season of the rainforest. Probably something I should know—or have at least looked up by now.

We start unloading, carefully placing the boxes inside the mess-hall tent where we will be able most easily unpack them, and where any sudden rain won't damage them.

"How was the trip to town?" I ask him.

"Oh, it was lo mismo de siempre. Nothing much different. No rain though. That was muy bueno."

I grab a box, grinning when I see what's inside. Flour and cocoa. Sandy's going to be thrilled. She's been talking all week about her chocolate cake craving and lamenting over her lack of cocoa.

Eduardo peeks into the box to see what I'm grinning at. "¡Delicioso! Señora's chocolate cake! ¡Mi favorito!"

"¡Sí!" I exclaim, already salivating thinking about her cake. It's nothing fancy. A simple chocolate cake with no icing, baked by the fire, and made with simple ingredients. I guess it was a recipe used during the great depression when a lot of ingredients were scarce from rationing. But somehow it's the richest chocolate cake I can remember having and a huge favorite in the group.

Instead of grabbing another box, I start unpacking the baking goods so that maybe Sandy will see them when the team gets back for lunch and, you know, get the idea and bake that cake right away! But at the bottom of the box, underneath all the bags of flour, is a newspaper—a local printing from the small town where we get our supplies. Pulling it out so I can break down the box, I glance back at it and almost gasp at the headline.

"Something wrong, Arnold?" Eduardo asks, having heard my gasp.

"What's this?" I ask him, picking up the newspaper and staring at it.

He leans over the box he's unpacking to see what I'm holding. "Eh, local newspaper. ¿Por qué?" he questions coming to stand next to me. Taking his hat off, he wipes the sweat from his brow. Another humid day in the jungle.

I can feel Eduardo peering at the article from over my shoulder. "The river pirate La Sombra was seen nearby. Ah, maybe it is fortunate we are not staying in town, no?"

"La Sombra?" I whisper, a bitter taste in my mouth. A name from my childhood nightmares—a name I always suspected was the reason my parents never came home. An infamous name I hoped I'd never have to hear again, let alone in such proximity.

Eduardo doesn't seem surprised like I am by the article. Perhaps it's not uncommon for La Sombra to cause problems nearby. That's a comforting thought. "He's still here?" I look up at him in surprise. "I always assumed he'd be in jail by now."

"No, they never have been able to catch him. But, you know, the local policia are not so good." Eduardo frowns down at the article. "He's still a menace to the locals. ¡Un canalla!"

It worries me, thinking La Sombra was here in the area. Not to mention the fact that Helga's out traipsing around somewhere…alone! What if—no, Arnold, don't think like that. Everything's gonna be okay…Sandy's got her…vibe. Right?

"Arnold, mijo, I know what troubles you." Eduardo's tone has changed. He sounds empathetic suddenly.

My eyes dart back up to his face. How does everyone know I love Helga?

"It is because of your parents, yes? You wonder if La Sombra is to blame for their disappearance." Eduardo turns and stares out into the darkening jungle. "It is what I have always thought, too. I'm sure La Sombra was angry with them after they stole La Corazón from him all those years ago. Hace mucho tiempo." He has a far-off look in his eyes, his brows furrowed, as he continues to stare into the jungle.

"It's strange to hear his name—to hear that he's still here and people still speak of him when my…when they…" I can't seem to finish the sentence.

"When your parents are not. That is what you want to say, no?" Eduardo looks at me, his dark eyes sad.

I nod, moisture in my eyes. My heart twinges in pain at his words and I bite back the tears that are forming. Grief is a puppeteer…even years later it can still control you—still make your anguish fresh again. You can push it down and fight it, but somehow it still can sneak up and take hold of you.

"I will tell you, Arnold, guilt is my constant compadre. Guilt because I was the one who convinced your parents to come help the Green Eyed people that last time. Una última vez. That is what I told them. It is because of me that they did not return home to you—their son. That they never got to see you again, never got to raise you and watch you grow up. Me pesa mucho lo que pasó. Lo siento, Arnold. Lo siento mucho." He looks at me, his eyes brimming with moisture and reaches out to hug me.

I return his hug, blinking back tears of my own. "It is not your fault they chose to go. They could have said no."

He puts his hands on my shoulders and looks me in the eye. "Quizás. Still I should not have come. The Green Eyed people did fine for thousands of years before your parents, they would have been okay. You know, mijo, I wanted to come. To see you as a child to tell you about your parents and about how sorry I was. But I could not. My guilt was much and I worried I would just hurt you more by doing so."

"Eduardo…it isn't your fault. Whether or not you brought the message from the Green Eyes—they still made the decision to go. They still left. It's not your fault."

He shakes his head, his hands still on my shoulders and a melancholy smile on his face. "Arnold, I wish they could have lived to see you today. You would have made them so proud. Following in their footsteps and studying the Green Eyes' once great civilization. Putting together such a great team. Having such a good group of amigos. They would have been so proud of you."

Eduardo's mutual grief over my parents calms me for a moment—gives me a brief sense of not being alone—even if it's only for a moment.

Today. Finally.

I'm excited and antsy and scared all at once. I think I'm going to go bald from running my nervous hands through my hair over and over again. And my watch is probably tired of seeing my face—checking it to see the time—the time that is moving so insanely slow.

But finally…finally it's almost time.

"Hey, Arnold, we're going to pick up Helga from town now, do you want to come with us?" Sandy asks, giving me a meaningful look.

"Yah, you could take her on a hot date or something at the local café or whatever they have there," Soren comments hopping into the driver's seat. Sandy elbows him harshly in the ribs. "OW! What'd I do?"

I chuckle to mask my apprehension. As much as I want to go, I'm so afraid she won't be there that I don't think I could handle it. Not to mention the fact that I'm so in love with her it's still freaking me out and I still don't know what to do about—or even what I want to do about it.

"No, thanks. I have a lot to get done here."

"Are you sure, Arnold?" Antoinette asks, a worried expression on her face. "You could probably use the break. You've been tense, to say the least."

I give her a wry smile. "I'll be fine, Antoinette. I promise. But thanks for the concern."

"She'll be there, Arnold," Sandy whispers to me as she walks by and heads to the jeep. "Distance makes the heart grow fonder," she adds, sliding into the seat next to Soren, the boys bounching around in the back.

"What's that now?" Soren asks, raising his eyebrow quizzically.

"Nothing, babe." She winks at me and they all wave and call their good-byes before heading out.

I feel like I'm going to throw up. I'm queezy and light-headed, and twitching nervously. Despite Sandy's confidence that Helga will return—I'm just not so sure, and my body feels so insanely tight—like wires are running through me and being pulled from opposite ends. My shoulders are starting to ache and I'm wearing my lip from working it between my lips.

Distraction…I need a distraction. I glance around my tent looking for anything to distract myself, when I see the tip of and old trunk sticking out from beneath my cot. Not necessarily a happy distraction—but a strong one, and maybe just what I need.

I don't have much from my parents, and what I do have I stored in a box when I was sixteen when I was sick and tired of wishing and hoping my long lost parents would ever come back. Fifteen years without a word from them…I finally decided they were dead, or if they were alive, they didn't want to come back.

The box had become a trunk when I went to college. A sturdy place to keep those things that still meant so much to me, but were too painful to look at. Tentatively I pull the latch and crack open the small chest. Memories flood back at the items in the trunk. The picture of my parents on their honeymoon—the one I kept safely in a drawer by my pillow until I was thirteen. A picture of all of us with my grandparents during my first birthday party. And the only family picture I have of the three of us—me just a little baby. My old, blue baseball cap that I wore every day until I was thirteen and it was just too small and ridiculous looking.

I pause at the last item and pull my hand back. Something I have looked at for so long. Something that seems just as fantastical as the stories my Grandpa Phil used to tell me about my parents. My father's brown, leather bound journal: his memories of all that happened during his time in San Lorenzo and Hillwood before they left me that last time.

I stare at the thing and it feels as if it's staring back at me. My lips press together in a slight grimace and reach up to rub the back of my neck. A longing flows through me like a wave, but it's countered by a tightness in my chest and a sinking in my stomach. I want to read it again after all these years. But I know the landslide of pain and other emotions that will take over me if I do. Feelings that I spent too much of every day trying to bury within me, trying to push down, trying to hide from others, a pain still so raw and brutal it gnaws at my heart all the time—eating away little bits at a time like a little squirrel eating a cracker.

But I miss them. I can't remember my parents, but I miss feeling like I knew them from reading the pages in my dad's journal. I miss that warm feeling I'd get while I read it, as if they were still with me. I could almost picture them there next to me, their smiling faces so proud of who their son had become. Their laughter brightening the darkness of the old boarding house. Oh, how I'd daydream about them. About all the things we'd do or talk about if they ever came back. How it would mend that hole in my heart just a tad if I'd let it.

I want that now. I want to not feel alone anymore. I want to not worry about whether or not Helga's never coming back. Whether or not Helga cares for me as anything more than someone she once knew. I want to feel that warmth and comfort again.

Reaching down I grip the old leather in my hand, pausing there, not lifting it up, trying to will myself to calm down—to think clearly—to decide if this is really what I want to do. I squeeze it tightly—fighting with myself.

But then, I change my mind. Thinking maybe it's better not to open those wounds again. So I squeeze it one last time—

There's something about the sound of a propeller and engine that soothes a tattered soul. Like the white-noise machine my parents put next to my bed when I was a child and couldn't fall asleep. Just a rhythmic, evenly paced drone of a small Piper plane, blocking out distractions and sounds. And thoughts—sad, painful thoughts.

For all the beauty before my eyes—for all the majesty that is the rainforest, its rolling river below us, its awesome cliff and waterfall in front of us, and the gigantic expanse of open sky before us—my heart's not in it anymore. My heart's back home in Hillwood, sleeping in his little crib, fast asleep—without his parents nearby.

Stella places her hand on my shoulder comfortingly. She's feeling the same way. Maybe even worse than me. Mothers miss their babies the most, I'm sure. But I miss Arnold. I miss him so much already that it's like a thousand tiny knives piercing my heart. I'm already regretting our decision to leave. We'd promised him we'd never take our eyes off him again—never leave him. But here we are…running off to a far country to help strangers. If we couldn't say no this time…how will we ever say no every time in the future when The Green Eyed people call for our help again?

I glance over at Stella. Light reflects off a few scattered teardrops on her cheeks. She's holding a picture of baby Arnold tightly in her hands, holding it low so the wind from our flight doesn't grab it and take it from her. We miss him so much.

I look forward again, focusing on the soft sounds of the propeller again. It's even kilter, its loud hum. I let it get into my mind and block out everything else. Forcing myself to think about nothing but that sound, as I watch for our destination. We'll be there soon. Near the Green Eye alter that borders their realm.

Oh no.

No, no, no, no.

That loud hum, that purr of the engine…it's…it's fading. A chill rushes down my spine.

The engine is out and the sound diminishes until nothing is left but the sluggish clicking of the propellers as they turn less and less. We're just gliding…floating for now. Minutes, maybe seconds away from a possible crash.

A quick glance back at Stella tells me she's just as concerned as I am. "Restart the engine!" she directs pointing to the control panel.

I try. It sounds like it just might work, but then kills out again.

"Are we out of fuel?" Stella asks.

"The fuel gage is fine, we have plenty of gas," I reply.

"Then what's going on?"

"I don't know." My voice is softer than I mean it to be. I'm trying my best to process what's happening.

I try not to panic. We've been in crazy situations before, we can fix this. We have to fix this.

Reaching up, I turn the trim on the winding wheel above my head.

"What are you doing?" Stella asks, a look of panic crossing her face.

"Trying to get us a bit more drag and hopefully slow…our descent." My heart hammers and I close my eyes, trying to remember everything I learned in flight school all those years ago.

Reaching down I try to start the engine again, but this time it only revs endlessly. And we're picking up speed…the earth getting closer and closer to us by the second.

A shot of rage flows through me at my powerlessness. "No!" I shout, pounding my fist onto the dash.

But the rage dissipates and I can feel the acceptance of our likely fate and tears start to form. A small Piper plane versus the rainforest…not very good survival odds—especially at the rate and height we're falling from.

"Miles," Stella's voice calls to me as her hand finds my shoulder again. "Miles."

I glance back at her, fresh tears streaming down her face. "You can do it, Miles. You can save us. You have to save us. For Arnold. We have to get home to Arnold." The tears are coming faster now, the pleading in her voice so strong. Yet, somehow her face exudes bravery. She believes in me. She believes in the way we always beat hopeless odds.

The plane turns into a nose dive, slowly at first. I reach for the controls, praying I can at least lessen the blow we're about to feel. I glance up at a picture of my little family—the three of us—pinned next to the front window of the plane. My thoughts fly as fast as the trees that are heading for us while I fight to control the plane.

I should have told Eduardo no. We should have stayed. We should have stayed in Hillwood…with Arnold. Our son. Our pride and joy. Why did I leave? Why did I think helping the Green Eyes was more important than being there for my son?

Stella grabs my arm, squeezes it tightly, the picture of Arnold tucked protectively into the pocket of her shirt. The trees swoosh past the side windows. Any second now—though the seconds have slowed—or so it seems.

CRUNCH—CRASH!

The tip of the right wing catches a tree, breaking the wing—the plane to leans slightly.

I shouldn't have left. I'll never see my parents again.

CRUNCH!

I'll never get to tell Arnold how much I love him. I'll never get to see him grow up—never get to take him fishing, or camping, or play ball with him.

CRACK!

I'll never see the boy he becomes, the man he grows up to be.

I'll never see my son again. Never.

Seconds from impact, I grit my teeth in anticipation. Stella and I cling to each other, and brace for the impact. At least in these final moments I have her—the love of my life—with me.

I love you, Arnold. I love you, son.

We slam into more trees—a rush of air and dirt flies past us. Closing my eyes I think of Arnold. The sound of us hitting the trees is deafening. The plane bounces, hits the nose, and then tips to the side before it pole-vaults over into a cartwheel.

The roaring noise of the crash becomes muffled—sparkling lights—a wave of pain shoots through me, and then, darkness.