What the Other Three Don't Know

by Spencer Hyde

  Nobody asked about the raft or the gear because everything else seemed unimportant considering what had just happened. I heard Nash screaming twenty yards downriver and saw Wyatt ripping his shirt and wrapping it around Nash’s leg. I tried to stand up, but stars burst in my peripheral, and I knew I’d moved too quickly. I sat back down and held my face between my knees and breathed in deeply.

  After a minute, I tried again, gathering what strength I had and standing slowly. I saw Skye walk back to Wyatt with a pile of wood. Good. Everyone had made it. As I walked over to them with Shelby, I caught sight of the raft, the black streak set against the lighter blue. It was beached on a tipped grand fir that looked like it had been in the river since time began. The raft wasn’t moving.

  The waters were slow at this oxbow, and the river looked almost peaceful as it bumped up against the fir with each shift in the water. The raft could come later, though. Shelby put her arm around my shoulders as we joined Nash, Skye, and Wyatt.

  “I seriously thought I was going to die,” she said.

  “Me too,” I said. “Are you hurt?”

  “Just a few scratches. You?”

  “My knee feels a little wonky, but just scratches, otherwise.”

  The mood around Nash was one of quiet desperation. Wyatt’s face told the story—brows fixed and lips pinched and his eyes more serious than I’d ever seen them. Skye stood next to Wyatt, waiting to be told what to do. I looked down at Nash’s leg and had to hold back from retching in front of him. I could see bone beneath the wet shirt Wyatt had wrapped around the leg.

  “I can’t do this,” said Shelby, walking back to our previous spot on the shore and sitting. She was the only one still wearing her PFD.

  “That will hold for now,” said Wyatt. “If anyone sees the red first aid kit, let me know. We could use it.”

  “It’s in the raft,” said Nash. “Under my seat.”

  “We all fell out of the raft,” said Skye.

  “It’s upstream,” I said. “Right there.”

  Wyatt nodded, as if he was in a hospital and this information was news he could work with, though he wasn’t about to give the patient any hope just yet.

  “Well, the leg is obvious,” said Wyatt. “Broken tibia in multiple places, is my guess. I also think that arm is a noodle that needs setting fast. Sorry, Nash. I mean, it will heal, but you won’t be walking or rowing for a while.”

  “I didn’t feel the leg as much as the arm,” said Nash. He winced in pain and slowly breathed out, holding most of it in his chest like a slow rumble, a soft growl. He was working hard to mask the pain. “My arm caught between two rocks and my body went with the water, twisting as it went, until it popped free as I rose with a swell.”

  “Spiral fracture, maybe,” said Wyatt.

  “You an EMT or something?” I said.

  “Something like that,” said Wyatt.

  He didn’t look like he wanted to talk about it, and he continued working on Nash’s leg until he felt it was sturdy enough to leave it alone. He gently maneuvered Nash’s arm into a sling made from torn clothing.

  “Don’t move that leg. Or that arm. You sit right here,” said Wyatt.

  He and Skye leaned Nash against a boulder at an angle that looked semi-comfortable, all things considered.

  The raft was still upstream, still stuck against a giant log. Nobody knew what gear we had available to us, and we were all soaked in water as well as adrenaline. I was shaking, but wasn’t sure if it was my body warming up, or my body trying to contain the adrenaline shooting out from my fingertips.

  “We have to see what’s in that raft,” said Wyatt. “Grab the first aid kit. I need to put something on that leg wound that will hold better than my shirt.”

  I tried not to stare at Wyatt—considering our situation—but, holy buckets, he was ripped. I knew he had some definition in his arms because we wore PFDs and he sometimes wore smaller shirts, but so often in camp he wore his really baggy zombie apocalypse prepper shirt, and nobody could tell just how toned he was.

  Skye looked between us, and then he pulled me aside as Wyatt put his PFD back on and made his way back upstream, heading for the raft.

  “You seeing what I’m seeing?” said Skye.

  “The raft?”

  “That walking god right there. Adonis, I think, is his name.”

  “Shut up,” I said.

  “Dang, Indie,” said Skye. “Look at your arm.”

  He was right. I hadn’t had time to really look at it, but now I felt its pulsing revive as I stared into what looked like the aftermath of a meat grinder. Luckily, it was all on the surface. No fractures. At least, none that I could feel.

  Wyatt waded into the water and slowly made his way toward the raft. The rest of us watched, and I worried that, though the water was slow, something else was about to happen. Perhaps thinking the same thing, Skye ran back to Nash, where he had an oar—the same oar he’d used to help Nash onto shore, I later learned—and walked out to meet Wyatt. Ribbons of gritty sand shifted beneath my feet while I waited.

  When Wyatt was next to the raft, he grabbed the guide rope and pulled it free of the log. Thankfully, he was able to find enough purchase to yank the raft back and swim it to shore with the help of Skye and the oar. Shelby and I helped pull the raft onto dry land. We probably pulled it too far, but we were all anxious and worried and novices when it came to beaching-rafts-after-massive-spills-and-serious-injuries kinds of things.

  Wyatt emerged from the raft with the first aid kit and ran to Nash. Skye hopped into the raft and began searching through what was left.

  “Any food?” I asked.

  “No food. Or water, other than two bottles.”

  “Coke?”

  “No Coke, either,” said Skye. “But that would be more important than food or water or dry clothes, right? All that’s left are two tents and our climbing gear, of all things.”

  “Truly,” I said. “Of all things. No fly-rod?”

  “My rod is gone. And all the flies,” he said.

  “Still plenty of flies,” I said, swatting at one resting on my shoulder.

  “Wrong kind.”

  “Right kind, wrong make.”

  “Right,” he said, jumping down from the raft with the climbing gear and one of the tents.

  We walked back to the others, and Wyatt immediately started setting up the tent, saying we needed to let Nash rest and regroup before we figured out what to do next. Skye filled everyone in on what we had. Or, more accurately, what we didn’t have.

  “Any phones?” Wyatt asked.

  Skye shook his head. “Dry-bags are gone. We might see some on our way down the river. Maybe some were caught against the shore somewhere.”

  “I guess Wyatt won’t have a shirt for a while,” I said, looking at Shelby for a smile or confirmation. But Shelby’s head was between her knees, and I heard her sniff. She was crying. My timing was awful.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Are you kidding me?” she said, lifting her head. “Look at this. Look at us! How are we supposed to get out of here? I don’t recall any of you being able to raft a river like this. Maybe Wyatt can get us out because he’s ready for everything. I don’t know.”

  “C’mon, Shelby. That’s not fair,” I said.

  “She’s not wrong, though,” said Skye. “I’m lucky my leg wasn’t lost in that spill. We don’t have any way of communicating, do we? I haven’t seen another outfit since my groover visit yesterday.”

  “Wait, you saw another raft while you were at the groover?” I said.

  “It was really awkward. I just waved. What was I supposed to do? Ten people just watching me from two different rafts. But at least it was scenic. For all of us.”

  “Not funny,” said Shelby. “Stop joking. Stop flirting, Skye. We ate the last of the food this m
orning. We have some water left, and what? Cheese?”

  “Easy, Shelbs,” said Wyatt.

  “Don’t call me that!”

  She stood up and walked beyond the chokecherry shrubs near the water’s edge, then climbed over a turned log split halfway up and moldering on the ground.

  “She needs to relax,” said Skye.

  “She’s the only one showing the proper amount of fear,” said Wyatt. “Look, I hate to say this, but you guys need to understand we’re not in a great spot.”

  “We get that,” said Skye, looking my way.

  “We can’t just hop back into the raft and find help. We have rapids between us and any help, and we can’t run them with any certainty that Nash will make it through,” Wyatt said.

  I screwed my lips up and watched Wyatt finish putting up the tent, the poles connecting and swinging like he was some madman conductor with too-long batons all over the place.

  I glanced at Nash, leaning on the nearby boulder. I wondered what it would take for him to get back into the raft.

  “Never seen water do that,” said Nash, wincing, pulling his arm closer to his chest, perhaps thinking that would relieve some of the pain.

  I gave Nash one of my more withering looks.

  “Okay. Maybe one other time,” he said.

  I had a preternatural feeling in my gut, like everything was out of sync, and yet we were exactly where we needed to be to regroup.

  “The next two sets of rapids before Sheep Creek Cabin are supposed to be easier. After that, though . . .” He shook his head. “Indie knows how to find a line in the water. We can’t wait here and hope another outfit will find us. We don’t have food or water—and I don’t think I have that kind of time.”

  “You must be out of your mind if you think we’re getting back on the water with you in your condition,” said Skye.

  I was thinking the same thing, so I was happy he said it.

  “I agree with Shelby. We’re screwed,” said Wyatt.

  “Aren’t you the prepper guy,” said Skye, “afraid of nothing and nobody?”

  “Nice. Another quick judgment, bud,” he said. “I’m not without worries over here. Did you see Nash’s leg?”

  “I don’t see any other options here,” said Nash. “My crew knows that if we don’t make it to camp three, we need help. But I doubt we can make camp three by nightfall. They will look for us, starting with Sheep Creek Cabin, which is our rescue point, if needed. We’ll be lucky to make it to the cabin. No radio. No sat phone. No other way of letting them know we’re in trouble. They’ll be searching for days.” He put his hand on his leg, closed his eyes, and tilted his head to the sky.

  A bald eagle hovered high above our position, and I imagined what I’d see in that moment if I were a bird flying high above the canyon walls. I closed my eyes as well, listening to the small breeze brush off the fir trees and pines and whisper through the canyon with the rapid’s roar a hush in the background on this side of the oxbow.

  Four-letter word for “incorrigible”: Nash. Someone beyond correcting or improving or changing. I figured he’d brushed over the bit about the sat phone without recognizing what he’d said, because he didn’t seem to change his trajectory.

  Skye looked at me and knew that I’d caught it—how could I not?

  Options:

  1.Grab the oar next to the raft, slowly bring it into a quiet backswing, and then completely KO Nash and let him slump against the rock.

  2.Scream until my voice gives out completely.

  3.Ask Wyatt if any of his hatchets made it through the spill, tell Nash I was trained in open-leg surgery, and commence procedure with hatchet.

  4.Calmly ask why this important information was kept from me.

  I guess I took a spin on numbers 2 and 4, but the entire time I was thinking about 1 and 3.

  I looked at Wyatt and Skye. “Did you know about this?”

  “About what?” said Shelby, walking back from behind the shrubs, her eyes red and swollen.

  “The satellite phone.”

  “All outfits have a sat phone,” said Wyatt. “Where is yours, Nash?”

  Nash winced again, but I wasn’t sure if it was real or if he was using it to deflect.

  “Where is the sat phone, Nash?” I said.

  Nash breathed out heavily and cradled his arm.

  “I didn’t bring one. A luxury I couldn’t afford. Look, my guys are close. We can make this. There are always other outfits on the river. I’m the one injured anyway, so don’t worry.”

  “Don’t worry? Really?” said Wyatt. “We thought you had a sat phone from day one. Isn’t it required?”

  “Yes, technically,” said Nash.

  “Technically,” repeated Wyatt, staring at Nash. “Nice. That’s good. That’s great.”

  “It was a guaranteed connection in case we had something like this happen,” said Skye.

  “You didn’t think to be prepared for an emergency?” I said. “So what was that whole rock pile about, anyway? You didn’t learn a thing.”

  I walked to the raft, grabbed the other tent, and went back around the oxbow, where the shout of the rapids was louder, where the water could work its way into my thoughts and crowd out the betrayal I felt, where the trees would provide me company rather than some group of random strangers and a guide who couldn’t be trusted.

  No crossword puzzles. No fly-rod. No hatchets. No Bury. No book to read, nobody to talk to, and nowhere to go. Hell on earth. Hell’s canyon, on earth, because where else would it be?

  Was I being immature? Was I being too hard on Nash, still, despite all of our efforts to close the gap he created when he hesitated and my mom drowned because of it? Would he have died in the same manner?

  What if I’d agreed to go on the river trip with her? What if I’d pulled her back, or made us late so we didn’t hit the rapids at the same time, in the same way, and lose anybody to the water? The past circled me like a whirlpool, and I felt the years of anguish billow around me like the silt from a darting fish in the bottom of the river.

  My arm was pulsing, the adrenaline slowly ebbing, my body achy and tired and my eyes heavy. The sun was hitting the yellow rain-fly, and I tasted salt and felt rage curl in my stomach.

  I knew we had to get back on the water eventually, but I couldn’t go out there feeling the way I was feeling. I was sweating in that stupid tent with the yellow rain-fly, and the only reason I had the fly on was to keep anybody from staring at me. I wanted privacy, and it provided what little I could find.

  “Anybody in there?”

  “Not now, Skye,” I said.

  “It’s me. Wyatt. And I have my shirt off.”

  “Not gonna work, Skye.”

  “Worth a shot, though, right?”

  “I wanted off this infernal river the first day. I asked about the phone the first day. That man is a liar.”

  “If you hadn’t come, it would mean you wouldn’t know me. Or Shelby. Or Wyatt. And yes, his lie was stupid, but he didn’t want to give you another reason to back out. How could he know something like this would happen?”

  “That’s just it. It’s happened before. Worse. He should plan for it.”

  “Ultimately, the man lied to find forgiveness. To make peace. He just didn’t want you to bail on the trip. He wanted to make things right.”

  I saw his shadow squat in the sand outside the rain-fly.

  “I’d lie for that as well.”

  I heard him breathe in deeply and out through his nose. He waited. I waited. It was a long silence, and I looked at the tent walls as if they held some sort of answer. The heat was brutal, and I was dripping sweat. My arm ached. Flies buzzed against the tent flaps, nicking against the material.

  “I think you should come out so we can spend more time together. I mean, what will you do without
me, Indie? If I’m not around after this trip? My guess is that you’ll probably wake up one day and start smoking just to keep the pain away, to keep away the thoughts of what we could have been. After a while, you’ll realize smoking was a poor decision because everyone at school will only remember you because of your smell, instead of your wonderful personality.

  “But by then, you’ll be up to a hundred-dollar-a-week habit, and you’ll be in debt to some serious bookies, who’ll threaten to hurt children if they don’t get paid on time. You’ll decide to go on the patch to save the children, but those cost a lot as well. You’ll realize the only way to get off cigarettes is to go with cheap chewing tobacco, because you can’t quit cold turkey, because that just means your mind will race with thoughts of me.

  “So you’ll fill cups of spit in school, and people will be glad you don’t smell, but they’ll be grossed out by the red Solo cup you have to carry with you everywhere. Then, you’ll lose all your teeth, get a rare flesh-eating disease from the cheap fiberglass in the chew, and need half of your face removed.

  “Your dog will try to attack you, and your grandfather will kick you out of the trailer because he doesn’t recognize Half-Face—which will be your new nickname at school, obviously—and you’ll end up sleeping in one of those ATM booths that you can only access with a bank card, so you’ll wait until people need cash, then sneak in behind them and sleep in there.

  “Then, because I have a great job during the school year, I’ll be the one delivering you pizzas in that ATM booth and asking if you’ll reconsider what we could have had if only you’d exited the tent instead of sitting in your anger. At that point, though, you won’t be able to get the other half of your face back. And I don’t want that. I want to deliver you pizzas, but only if you have a whole face to eat them.”

  I was glad he couldn’t see me smiling. I didn’t want to be smiling. I wanted to feel every emotion but joy, and I was working hard to suppress any happiness. Something about the Skye outside the tent.

  “Is this your ham-fisted attempt at an apology for Nash? He should do his own apologizing.”

  “C’mon, Indie. He’s had it pretty rough as it is. We were all a step away from death.”