The End of the Wild

by Nicole Helget

  Copyright

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2017 by Nicole Helget

  Illustrations copyright © 2017 by Oamul Lu

  Cover design by Marcie Lawrence. Cover illustration © 2017 by Oamul Lu. Cover copyright © 2017 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  Hachette Book Group supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact permissions@hbgusa.com. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  Little, Brown and Company

  Hachette Book Group

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  First Edition: April 2017

  Little, Brown and Company is a division of Hachette Book Group, Inc. The Little, Brown name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Helget, Nicole Lea, 1976– author.

  Title: The end of the wild / Nicole Helget.

  Description: First edition. | New York ; Boston : Little, Brown and Company, 2017. | Summary: “Eleven-year-old Fern helps to take care of her impoverished family by foraging for food in the forest, but when a fracking company rolls into town, she realizes that her peaceful woods and her family’s livelihood could be threatened”— Provided by publisher.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2016031990| ISBN 9780316245111 (hardback) | ISBN 9780316245128 (ebook) | ISBN 9780316364966 (library edition ebook)

  Subjects: | CYAC: Family life—Fiction. | Stepfathers—Fiction. | Forests and forestry—Fiction. | Poverty—Fiction. | Schools—Fiction. | Science projects—Fiction. | Environmental protection—Fiction. | Social action—Fiction. | BISAC: JUVENILE FICTION / Social Issues / Homelessness & Poverty. | JUVENILE FICTION / Nature & the Natural World / Environment. | JUVENILE FICTION / Family / Alternative Family. | JUVENILE FICTION / Cooking & Food. | JUVENILE FICTION / Social Issues / Self-Esteem & Self-Reliance. | JUVENILE FICTION / Animals / Dogs. | JUVENILE FICTION / Lifestyles / Country Life. | JUVENILE FICTION / Social Issues / Death & Dying.

  Classification: LCC PZ7.H374085 End 2017 | DDC [Fic]—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016031990

  ISBNs: 978-0-316-24511-1 (hardcover), 978-0-316-24512-8 (ebook)

  E3-20170302-JV-PC

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  To Softy, Spirit, Snuffy, Pierps, Pony, and Polar Bear, good dogs past and present

  Chapter 1

  A hint of winter is on the morning wind. Waist-long, walnut-colored hair slaps my face. A gray tendril grows from just behind one ear. I don’t know why I have gray hairs at eleven years old. I just do. My eyes are gray, too. Steel, actually, is what Toivo, my stepdad, says. Like what my nerves are made of, he says. If you ask me, my eyes are way too big, like an alien’s.

  A wild pack of family dogs yaps along Millner’s property fence. One’s got black ears pointed upward. Another dog, short and squat, has brown ears down long. He keeps his nose high, so his ears don’t drag on the ground.

  One dog has nubs where his ears should be. And another, a mottled terrier that licks his nether regions, has one ear northwest and one ear southeast. An ugly pup, spotty and short-furred, has a wood tick the size of a dime attached to the side of his eye. A few regular-sized canines of other dog colors scratch their ears and bite away chunks of mud from between their toes. They bark at me and make a tetchy racket.

  Ruff! Grrr! Yip! Oww-wow-wow!

  In total, they’re a gang of eight or nine canines belonging to our neighbor, Horace Millner, who is a killer.

  I call one of them Ranger. He’s a yellow-and-brown German shepherd. The fur around his muzzle is silver with age. He stares at me as though he is full of big thoughts. Ranger has a way about him that is different from the other dogs. It is a way about him that I like. He’s a no-nonsense kind of dog. He’s wily and smart and courageous. There are just some things you can tell about animals by watching them as long as I’ve watched these ones.

  I pat my hand on my thigh. “Here, boy,” I say. “Here, Ranger.” Ranger cocks his head sideways. I’d like to have Ranger for myself. Millner doesn’t deserve such a fine animal.

  Ranger turns and pretends to ignore me. He steps his front paws up and down a little bit as though he’s considering it, jumping the fence and running to me.

  I inch my boot forward toward the fence and slowly raise my hand out in front of me.

  Ranger turns his ears to me and puts his nose up, but he doesn’t spook off. My boot scratches along the gravel road again. Ranger’s tail lifts up.

  “It’s okay,” I coax. “I’m not going to hurt you. It’s okay.”

  The other dogs glance back and forth between Ranger and me as I creep forward.

  “That’s a good dog,” I say. When I’m within touching distance, the fur on the back of Ranger’s neck stands up. One of the other dogs growls low, so low that even though I can barely hear it, my neck vibrates.

  Ranger snaps at that dog.

  I jump back.

  “Okay,” I say. “Okay.” I back away from the pack.

  One last time, I lean over and pat my thigh. “Here, boy,” I say.

  He doesn’t come, though. He must feel some loyalty to the rest of those wretched animals.

  “Suit yourself,” I say, and I turn away. No one is awake yet out here in the country. We live about a mile outside Colter, a small Michigan town, which has got a school, a community college, a beauty parlor, two churches, one cemetery, a few bars, Grandpa’s pipe factory, a couple of auto garages, and not much else except a lot of nosy people.

  This morning, the sunrise cuts like glass shards across the emptied cornfield, spills over the gravel road, and spears into the grove. The brown-and-orange leaf canopy shivers with the wind. Oak trees hold on to their leaves in autumn even as the rest of the trees lose theirs. I spy an oak with full branches. This time of year, middle of October, hen-of-the-woods mushrooms grow in layered bunches at the base of oaks. They are bark-colored—tan, brown, and gray—and have leaf-shaped petals.

  From my back pocket, I pull a canvas bag and drape it over my shoulders like a shawl. I wish I had grabbed my jacket, even if it was already too small last fall. I need a new one, but I hate to bring it up with Toivo. We’re always broke or “cash strapped,
” as Toivo says. That just means we have no money.

  At the base of the oak tree, I stop. A hen-of-the-woods grows near the gnarled roots. With my pocketknife, I slice the mushroom from its stem and slip it into the bag. Hen-of-the-woods are very good eating, if you ask me. They taste like turkey or chicken, I guess. They even chew up in a birdy respect.

  A bright stick of white pokes out from some leaves. After brushing the leaves aside, I find a bone. The leg bone of a deer, looks like to me.

  I take that, too.

  On my walk back home, I pass where the dogs were. I set the bone near the fence. I have a hunch Ranger will know it’s from me.

  By the time I’m halfway home, the sun is a big egg yolk. The air out here swipes like long cat nails at my face, but I just smile. Out here, my stomach isn’t knotted about being hungry. My fingers don’t tingle in panic over having no money. My breath isn’t clipped short over minding my unruly brothers. My head doesn’t burn with worry over my undone homework.

  Soft, quick footsteps pad behind me. I stop and perk my ears.

  The footsteps stop, too.

  I check the road and the ditch and the edges of the field and the grove. Though I don’t see anyone or anything, I hear someone or something breathing wetly.

  The worst thing you can do when a predator has you in its sights is stand still with a hard-beating heart and a trembling upper lip. The worst, worst thing you can do is start sweating out a scared odor.

  If I owned a dog like Ranger, he’d be here beside me right now, ready to attack whoever or whatever is out there waiting to kill me.

  I walk again, with my fist clenched. I scan the ground for a weapon-suited stone or stick. After a few paces, footsteps rustle behind me again. I reach down and take up a forked branch, perfect for jabbing two eyes with one stab. I spin with my weapon raised.

  But, again, no one’s there.

  Except my intuition tells me someone or something is.

  “Where are you?” I demand. “Come out!” Maybe it’s a bear. We get them around here sometimes. Or maybe it’s Horace Millner. Maybe he’s crouching in the ditch weeds. Maybe he’s mad at me for being in his woods. Or maybe he’d like to get rid of me, since I’m a constant reminder of his crime.

  “Who’s there?” I say. To be tricky, I walk backward just to see if whoever is following me will listen for my footsteps before showing himself. A couple of steps back, I do see something walking toward me on the road. The angle of the piercing light makes it impossible to identify.

  My heart throbs like a frog’s throat. I walk backward a bit quicker until I nearly fall down. The footsteps pick up speed. I raise my stick.

  Don’t panic, I tell myself. Don’t faint. Don’t run.

  Stand your ground. That’s what buffalo do.

  Run! That’s what deer do.

  I turn and dart. My arms slice the air, and my feet beat the ground. Even so, the footsteps gain on me. Up ahead, I’m surprised to see a bulldozer that reads KLOCHE’S HYDRAULIC FRACTURING parked on the side of the road. I dash for it, grab hold of the fender, and lift myself up into the cab. I collapse on the seat. The engine is warm, which means it’s only recently been running.

  For a few seconds, I squeeze my eyes closed and wait for a bear to bite down on my head or a knife to stab my back or a rope to get looped around my neck.

  But nothing happens. Finally, I straighten up and push the hair behind my ears. I turn and look.

  Woof!

  I squint and put my hand above my eyes like a visor.

  Woof! Woof!

  Ranger sits in the middle of the road. His wagging tail sweeps gravel back and forth. At his forepaws sits the leg bone I left him.

  Woof, he barks again.

  Then a high whistle pierces the morning air. Ranger’s ears go up. He picks up his bone, circles around, and strolls back toward the fence.

  On the other side of it, Horace Millner the killer stands staring at me with his arms crossed.

  I gasp. Because the sun is behind him, to me he looks like a dark, scary shadow. Was he watching me pick mushrooms from his woods? Did he see me try to coax his dog away?

  For a while, all I can do is steady my air and gape at him until he turns around and disappears like a ghost into the woods.

  Ranger trots after him with the big bone hanging off one side of his mouth. When I can’t see them anymore, I shout, “You’re welcome, Ranger!”

  Chapter 2

  I throw my backpack—Toivo’s old marine rucksack—under my desk and dive into my chair. The classroom clock says it’s 7:59.

  Alkomso, who sits behind me, kicks my chair. “You were nearly late again,” she whispers. Alkomso Isak has been my best friend since third grade.

  “I had to get my brothers to their classrooms,” I say. “Anyway, I beat Mr. Flores, and that’s all that matters.”

  “How’s your STEM project going?” she says.

  “Don’t even ask.” Just then, the bell rings. Mr. Flores, our science teacher, slides into the classroom.

  “Juuuuust under the wire,” he says. He’s only about twenty-five years old, but he’s already wrinkly around the eyes. Mr. Flores’s face is pale, like the underside of a mushroom. He’s wearing jeans and flip-flops and an old T-shirt with a big picture of Dolly Parton on it. He’s holding a big cardboard box. “Are we ready to study some bird specimens today?”

  Some kids groan, and some kids hoot and holler.

  Mr. Flores opens the box and begins pulling out stuffed birds—a pheasant that looks about to take flight and a mallard sitting on a nest.

  “Ew,” says Margot Peterson. “Those are disgusting. I am not touching those.”

  “No worries, Margot,” says Mr. Flores. “You don’t have to touch them if you don’t want to.”

  Mr. Flores usually makes science fun. Lots of times, he takes our class outside to study spiderwebs, compare rock compositions, identify clouds, observe tadpoles, and classify leaves. In the classroom, he sets up tons of experiments and plays videos about climate change and animal testing and the origin of the earth.

  Mark-Richard Haala, who is in serious need of a new pair of sneakers because his smell like raisins, raises his hand. “Mr. Flores? I have a major problem with my STEM project.”

  The Science, Technology, Engineering, and Math fair is in a couple of weeks, and I don’t even have a topic yet. Just the mention of it sets my stomach on the spin cycle.

  “Why can’t we just call it a science fair, like people used to?” asks Alkomso. “Why do we have to call it STEM now?”

  Mr. Flores shrugs, then pulls out a glass case with what looks like a pink pigeon inside and places it delicately on the top of his desk. “What’s your problem, Mark-Richard?” he asks.

  “I have to change my topic. All the plants for my project already died.”

  “All of them?” asks Mr. Flores. He sits on top of his desk, lifts a white owl out of the box, and sets it on his lap.

  “Yeah,” says Mark-Richard. “Now my hypothesis is ruined.”

  Mr. Flores straightens some of the feathers on the owl. “Sorry about your plants. But just because your data doesn’t support your hypothesis doesn’t mean that your project wasn’t successful.”

  Mark-Richard slumps in his seat. His long bangs hang over his eyes. “Yeah, but even my control plants in the good soil are, like, all droopy and hanging down. And the ones I planted in sand are brown and crunchy.”

  Margot scoffs. “Duh, Marky,” she says. “That’s because your parents smoke in the house all the time. And you probably forgot to water them.”

  Margot’s friends giggle with her.

  I spin around and look at Alkomso, who looks at me like Can you believe her?

  Mark-Richard straightens up and scowls at Margot. “I did water them. But they got these little tiny bugs all over them.” He wipes his nose with the back of his sleeve. “The bugs made webby things on the leaves, and they all turned brown.”

  Mr. Flores lights up.
“Now, see? That’s fascinating. Your project was a success even if it didn’t produce the result you intended.” He sets the owl next to the glass box and pulls out a small plastic bag of bones.

  “It was?”

  “Of course,” says Mr. Flores. “What effect do aphids, or whatever kind of bugs they are, have on plants?”

  “Death,” says Mark-Richard. The whole class laughs.

  Mr. Flores chuckles, too. “Yes. They kill them. But how? And why did the variable plants become infested faster?”

  Mark-Richard flips his hair out of his eyes. “I don’t know.”

  “True learning comes from being open to wrong answers,” says Mr. Flores.

  Margot sniffs. “Well, I’m going to make sure my conclusion matches my hypothesis. I want to get that purple ribbon.”

  Mr. Flores shakes his head. “Margot, Margot, Margot. There’s more to life than ribbons.”

  “Whatever, Mr. Flores,” Margot says. “You’re not the one judging the fair. My mom says that the projects that win every year are the ones with really nice-looking poster boards.” Margot’s mom is on the school board. “And the winner gets two hundred and fifty dollars.”

  “Two hundred and fifty dollars!” I shout. I clap my hand over my mouth. I don’t usually say anything, much less blurt it out to the whole class.

  I can feel the eyes of all my classmates on me. I scooch down lower in my chair.

  “Yes,” Margot says, and drums her fingers on her desk. “I need to win that money.”

  How could Margot say that? Her parents are probably the wealthiest people in Colter. I’m the one who needs to win that money. Maybe I could pay the propane bill so we wouldn’t have to chop so much wood from the grove to heat our house.

  Alkomso twists around in her seat to look at Margot. “As if you even need the money, Margot. You can just ask your dad for whatever you want.”

  Mark-Richard wipes his nose with his sleeve again. “If I won two hundred and fifty dollars, I’d buy my brother and me new bikes.”

  Margot takes a lip gloss out of her pocket. “For your information, Alkomso, I do need the money.” She smears the pink gloss over her bottom lip. “For a new phone.” She slides an iPhone off to the corner of her desk. “This one’s a piece of junk.”