Lost in the Backyard

by Alison Hughes

  “Mmm. I think I’ve had enough of the news,” I mumbled, my eyes closed.

  Cassie tossed the paper on the table and sat back in the chair.

  “You look pretty rough,” she said, tilting her head to one side.

  “Thanks a lot.” I gave a wheezy half-laugh. “Lots of bruising and/or abrasions?”

  “All manner of them,” she said. “But there’s nothing more serious. Other than the hypothermia, which is ‘mild to moderate.’ That doctor said that somewhere in there.” Cassie nodded at the paper.

  “Woo-hoo, no dismemberment! No death!” I pumped my IV fist weakly in the air, the tube flapping against my arm. This small, lame action was absolutely exhausting.

  “It was a risk of death and dismemberment. Just the risk of it.”

  “Yeah, well, the risk was enough for me.”

  We lapsed into silence. Then I turned my head slightly and looked at her.

  “Hey, remember telling me about how you feel very peaceful in the forest? One with the woods? Joe said there’s some German word for it, so you’re not as freakish as I thought.”

  She punched my shoulder. I must really have been in rough shape, because that actually hurt.

  “So what’s the word?”

  “Loooong German thing. Starts with W.” I wrinkled my brow, trying to remember.

  “Doesn’t matter. Did you ever feel it?” she asked. “When you were out there? Or was it all scary?”

  I thought for a minute. I thought of two beautiful deer wandering through the forest in the falling snow, pawing at the ground, quiet and natural in their wilderness home. I thought of the rabbits that had lent me their beds, and that strong, safe, majestic evergreen, and the winking stars in that deep, deep sky.

  “I don’t know,” I said helplessly. “Not one big ta-da moment like you seem to have. But maybe I got bits of it. Bits of it here and there. Sort of squashed between the worry and the terror. Do bits count?”

  “Sure,” Cassie said. “You know, Mom and Dad said we never have to go camping again ever if you don’t want to.” She added quickly, “And that’s fine with me.”

  I was getting tired again. So tired.

  “No, we’ll go. Of course we’ll go camping again,” I said. “I think there were three YouTube videos I didn’t watch last time…”

  Cassie laughed, and then she looked anxiously at me.

  “You look super tired again, Flynn. Like, zombie tired. Better sleep. Don’t worry about anything. You’ll be home soon. The doctor said you’re out of the woods, no pun intended.”

  She leaned over me and gave me a quick hug.

  I was too tired to even move my club hands to hug her back.

  “Love you, Owl,” I slurred.

  “Me too,” she whispered, her voice muffled in my shoulder.

  I closed my eye, drifting, slipping into sleep.

  Out of the woods…out of the woods…

  I was safe. Even without the pemmican and the tree house. Without training a falcon or making a fire or killing anything or getting killed.

  Against all the odds, and with a lot of luck, I had made it.

  I had survived.

  Just like those kids in the books.

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks to the wonderful staff at Orca Book Publishers, in particular my editor, Sarah “Hippie-Chick” Harvey, who is a complete delight to work with, even while axing every last adverb, and Chantal Gabriell, who designed the beautiful and atmospheric cover art. Thanks also to Mitchell (who listens to my story ideas) and to Kate (who tells me hers). I would also like to acknowledge Farley Mowat’s classic novel Lost in the Barrens, whose skilled, hardy and resilient characters don’t entirely deserve Flynn’s eye-rolling skepticism. He’s just jealous.

  Alison Hughes is an award-winning writer who has lived, worked and studied in Canada, England and Australia. Her previous books include Poser and On a Scale from Idiot to Complete Jerk. She read lots of survival stories as a child and used to make elaborate and thrilling plans to weather a natural disaster which, sadly, never materialized. Alison lives with her family in Edmonton, Alberta, where she still delights in blizzards and power outages and tends to stockpile canned goods.