by Stacie Ramey
The guy doesn’t wait for me to figure it all out. He throws his pack onto the floor next to me. “They call me Rain Man, because I’m always bringing the rain.”
I look outside. “Apparently.”
“Yeah.”
Awkward silence. I figure now’s the time to come up with my trail name before someone gives me a doozy. A good trail name, not that girl’s suggestions. “Wild Thing.”
“What?”
“My trail name.”
“As good a name as any, I guess. You hungry, Wild Thing?”
“Guess so.”
“Well, you are in for a treat. I happen to be known for my gourmet meals.”
My stomach growls just hearing that news.
Rain Man puts down his pack. “I use two stoves. In this case, mine and yours, And I dehydrate the meals myself. That’s the secret.”
I nod.
“You like shrimp and grits or chili?”
“I’ve never had shrimp and grits. So maybe chili.”
“You’ve never had shrimp and grits? That settles it. We’ll make a little of both so that you can have a taste. No pressure if you don’t like it. But you will. The trail makes you hungry. Especially a young guy like you.”
I feel heat go through me with that remark. Not because I’m embarrassed, but because he’s noticed I’m young. How young does he think I am? Can he tell I’ve gone AWOL? Is Rain Man a threat? Will he report me to the authorities?
I scour Rain Man’s face for signs that he might betray me or turn me in. Rain Man, for his part, keeps unpacking. “I’ve been hiking the trail for over thirty years. It’s how I get back to who I am inside. You know?” He points to his heart.
That gesture, along with its implication, makes me wince.
“You okay, Wild Thing?”
“Yeah.”
“Too heavy for you, son?”
The word “son” also makes me almost flinch, but I force myself to keep my shoulders back and my head tall, the way Dad taught me. I force myself to fake smile. “Nah. It’s fine.”
“How’s your water supply?”
I look at my almost depleted water bottle. “I’ll go get more.”
The lightning has stopped, so I’m feeling pretty lucky. Rain Man hands me his water bags. “Fill mine too? This one is where the stream water goes. Then we’ll hang it and it’ll filter into the clean water bag.”
I’m staring at this contraption, which holds a crap ton of water, and wondering why I listened to Emily, who made a face when she saw this very system, the one the guy at the store recommended. She’d wrinkled her nose and said the bags reminded her of the urine bags from the catheter Grandpa Fred had at the nursing home. That did it for me. But now I’m wondering why the hell I’d let that ruin the easiest way to filter water in the world. “Sure thing.”
He rubs his hands together. “Good. While you’re doing that, I’ll start our meal.”
I hike down to the creek to fill his bag and my filter and bottle. Along the way, I actually pay attention to my surroundings—a little trick I picked up after the bear episode. It’s stopped raining now, and the leaves are filled with water. Birds are out chirping. I can hear the water running down the rocks. I take my shoes off and wade into the water, letting the cool water calm my overworked feet. This is fast becoming my favorite part of each day.
A memory comes to me as I’m standing here in the stream.
Em and I were out with Dad at the movies. I was on one of Mom’s incentive programs, where if I behaved at school, I’d get a reward. I’d had, like, seven good days at school in a row (translation: I didn’t sleep in class), and we were seeing Godzilla. When we got home from the movies, I roared like Godzilla, and Max got all excited and pranced around, barking back. Em and Dad and I laughed so much, and Mom popped her head in the room and called us her little monsters. Her little wild things.
The memory weighs me down. I miss Max. I miss Em. I miss Dad. And also, I miss my mom.
A rustling to my left startles me. Is it a bear? My heart beats like mad. I peel a tree branch back and see it’s the girl. She’s about ten feet away. Her stare falls on me. I cast my eyes down, even though I wasn’t doing anything wrong. Well. I’m guilty of watching her and digging up her notes the other day, but it’s not like she knows that. This is just one example of how the body doesn’t lie, how movements speak louder than words, if you can just learn to read them.
“You doing okay, Bear Bait?”
“Two points.”
“Huh?”
“On Scattergories. That would be a two-point score. Letter B. Bear Bait. Both start with a B. So two points.” There I go with my verbal impulsivity. Sure to impress.
She looks at me like she can’t believe I’m still talking. I can tell because her shoulders are almost in a full shrug and her palms are facing up like What the hell? I don’t dare look at her face, because she’s got the kind of straightforward expressions I could probably read, and I’m not sure I want to see what she really thinks of me. “Okay… Well, enjoy your day.”
“You’re wet,” I blurt. I have to force my finger not to point because my social skills teacher told me it wasn’t cool to point at other people, it’s accusatory, for sure, but I guess in this case, I am accusing her. I’m accusing her of wearing rule-breaking cotton clothes, because part of me is pissed that she gets to wear them even though she is soaking wet and I am dry, proving why the rule exists to begin with.
“Your powers of observation are improving daily,” she says.
“You’ll get sick.”
“Not your problem, Bear Bait.”
“It’s Wild Thing, by the way.”
“Wild Thing?”
“My trail name.”
“You named yourself Wild Thing? Wow. I’m not sure if that’s incredibly egotistical or just plain stupid.”
I’m unprepared for criticism about my choice of nickname. So unprepared I find my hands on my hips like someone else put them there. “It doesn’t mean I think I’m a wild animal or frat boy or something.”
“It doesn’t?”
“No. After the book.”
Her head tilts a little. Her body leans toward me, and I take that as a win. “Where the Wild Things Are?” she asks.
“Yeah. It was my favorite book when I was a kid.” I shake my head. “I guess it still is.”
Her voice gets soft. “I know it by heart.” She puts her hand over her heart, and I feel myself getting more and more interested in this girl who is so plainspoken with her gestures and all. The one who loves the same book I love.
“Hey, you want to come to dinner?” I ask. “I could lend you some clothes while yours dry.”
“I’m good.” She pats her pack. Places it on the ground and starts taking off her boots. She takes her water bottle and pump out and starts working on filling it.
“I mean, I’d have to ask, but I could chip in food if he needed. He didn’t seem concerned over how much he had, and I could share my portion.”
She stops. “Who are you talking about?”
“Rain Man. He’s making shrimp and grits and chili.”
“You met Rain Man?”
“Yeah, why? You know him?”
“My family does. We used to see him when we hiked sometimes. My parents really liked him.” Her mouth droops a little, and I feel the sadness that memory cost her.
But once again, I wonder how this girl knows so much yet seems so ill prepared. I look at her half-ass water filter. Her soaking-wet clothes. It’s cold. Not freezing, but cold enough to be concerning. I hand her my filter, which is definitely in better working condition. “Yeah. Fill your bottle and come up to the shelter.”
Now she’ll have to come, because she’s got something of mine.
“I hate those shelters.” The girl puts her arms aro
und herself. “People are idiots. They leave crumbs that attract mice.”
“We just ducked in to get out of the storm.”
“I love storms.” She looks up at the sky. “And after. It’s like the air is cleared and everything smells so clean.”
I actually hate storms, but I remember that guys are supposed to agree with what girls they like say. “Me too.”
She smiles, and it seems my social skills training is finally paying off. Booyah!
“You don’t think he’ll mind?” she asks.
“I’m sure he won’t. And if he does, I’ll give you mine. I wasn’t so sure about shrimp and grits anyway.”
“You know he dehydrates all his food himself,” she says.
I don’t know why this is so important, but she seems really excited about it. So I say, “See you at the shelter.”
“Thanks, Wild Thing.”
Something about her using my trail name makes me feel warm inside, like I’m one of the gang.
“Sure.”
I make it all the way back to the shelter before noticing that I left my boots and disgusting socks by the creek. So smooth (two points), which is sort of astounding anyway since now I’ve apparently walked over mud and sticks and pebbles, so far into my head that I didn’t even notice. Me. Not noticing bare feet. On rocky and muddy ground. Wow.
Rain Man points to where my boots should be. “You lose your mind? You never leave your boots. Never. What happened? You meet some hot, young thing?”
“I uhh… Yeah, this girl. She said she knows you.”
“I hope you had the good manners to invite her for dinner.”
This reminds me of Mom and Aunt Mary, how they always welcomed whoever we brought home. Sam and Taylor ate over whenever they wanted, but that’s where it began and ended for me in terms of dinner guests. Aside from Emily, who doesn’t count, because she’s family. But I also know that Sam and Taylor’s families weren’t quite so open. Especially considering how much we swimmers eat. “You don’t mind?”
“Three for shrimp and grits it is.” He stirs the pot and goes into his backpack for another dehydrated pack.
“You can have some of my food if you want. You know, so you won’t run out.”
He holds up his hand. “I’m good. Always bring extra. Besides. Gonna do a zero day soon. I’ll restock.”
I nod like I know what he means. Only I’ve never done a zero day before. I have no idea what that even is.
“This girl. She the young blond one?”
“Yeah.”
“She used to have a different name, but now they call her Ghost.”
“That’s her trail name?”
“Nah. It’s a name hikers have given her. Used to hike with her family. She never talks to anyone anymore. So that means you must be special.”
“You mean, she used to talk to people and just stopped?” It’s not like me where I rarely talk to anyone anyway. But why talk and then stop? Something must have made that happen, and now I want to know what.
Rain Man stirs the pot and looks at me. “You must be special, Wild Thing, to get her to talk to you like that.”
I’ve got no idea what that means. Nor do I care. I’m too distracted by the arrival of the girl who doesn’t talk to anyone, the same girl who’s carrying my boots and socks and water filter. Awesome.
Chapter 9
At first Ghost stays pretty silent. Then Rain Man tells her she needs to change her clothes. ASAP. She grabs her pack, with one hand, and it collapses inward, which makes me think she’s got very little in there. She hustles into his tent and comes out in shorts and boots and a flannel shirt over a T-shirt. Her down vest is layered on top. She looks like she’s freezing.
Rain Man shakes his head, hands her a sweatshirt and a blanket to wrap around her legs. “Thanks,” she says.
“Your lips are blue.” Rain Man stirs the food. “You could get hypothermia. That’s no joke out here.”
Visions of web pages with graphic images of people with hypothermia flood my brain. I see those words of warning and hope like hell that Ghost listens to Rain Man. This is serious.
Ghost nods and I breathe out. She takes a bite of her shrimp and grits and actually moans. “This is so good.”
“It’ll warm you up. Sleep with your wet clothes in your sleeping bag tonight. Your body heat will dry them.”
She nods again. “I know that. I mean, I guess I forgot.”
I take a bite of my food. I’m so hungry that shrimp and grits tastes like the most amazing thing I’ve ever eaten. Especially with a side of chili.
Rain Man tells us stories about the weirdest stuff he’s seen on the trail, and Ghost and I exchange glances at the truly strange moments. A couple of times, Ghost actually bursts out laughing, and for some reason that makes me feel a bunch of different emotions at once. So far I’ve got angry and uncomfortable and this dread in my gut that must be jealousy. So weird. But honestly, I wish I could make her laugh like that.
Then Ghost jumps up. “Wait! I have dessert.” She opens her pack and shoves her arm all the way down to the bottom. She roots around, balancing the pack on her hip, which confirms my belief that her pack’s pretty light for this part of the trail. She must not have a lot of food left. I tell myself not to take whatever she dishes out, because she needs it more than I do. But she pulls out oatmeal raisin cookies, which are my all-time favorite. “Not homemade,” she apologizes as she doles them out. “But they are my favorite kind.”
I look at the wrapper. “CM Cookies?”
“Yeah.” She breaks off a tiny piece and pops it in her mouth. “They used to be called Cookie Monster Cookies, but I think they got sued or something. They’re made by someone in Maine. A stay-at-home mom makes them or something.”
“Don’t make fun of stay-at-home moms,” Rain Man warns, but he doesn’t open his cookie. “I was married to one for forty-two years.”
The finality of that statement makes me think Rain Man has a reason he’s hiking the trail solo now, maybe he didn’t before, and that knowledge hangs between us. For some reason, I care about this old guy even though we just met. I worry about him being alone. It’s the way I should worry about Mom, which reminds me of all that’s wrong with me.
Ghost looks at Rain Man, who still hasn’t touched his cookie. Then she turns to me. Boy, do I wish I knew how to handle social situations, because I’ve got no clue what to do here. I try to think about what Emily would do. I imagine her breaking down the scene for me. On the one hand, it’s rude not to take the cookie she’s offering. On the other hand, she’s obviously pretty low on food for her hike. I look at her face for answers, but that’s not going to help me.
“You don’t like oatmeal cookies?” Ghost asks.
The question is put out there for both Rain Man and me, but it pushes me to react. I rip open the wrapper. “They’re my favorite,” I say.
I guess that’s the right answer, because she smiles, and even I’d have to be completely clueless to not understand what that means.
Rain Man hands his back to her. His big, beefy man-hands look really gentle—like a dad’s or a grandpa’s. Nurturing hands. “I’m diabetic, but thanks for the offer.”
Is he really diabetic? Or has he found a way to make certain the girl can eat? Gracious, genius grandpa. Three points. Booyah.
“I’ll clean up,” Ghost offers.
“Go help,” Rain Man points at me and I’m grateful to him, because he’s given me a reason to have a conversation alone with her.
“It’s cool. I got it.” Ghost stands.
“There might be bears,” I say with a fake seriousness, which does the trick, because she cracks up.
“Don’t worry, I’ll protect you,” Ghost says.
Soon we’re walking to the creek, shoulders almost bumping. We take turns washing the bowls and pots in
the stream. When we’re done, I wipe the inside with some paper towels and pack those out in a big Ziploc bag.
She nods at me like she’s glad I’m following the Leave No Trace principles. Like I’m doing the right thing, which feels kind of good.
When we get back to the shelter, Rain Man is in his tent setting up to go to sleep.
The wind blows and Ghost shivers.
If I was smooth, I could offer to warm her up, but no way do I have the courage to do that.
“By the way,” Rain Man says, “I wanted to ask you,” he aims his voice at Ghost, “do your people know you’re out here?”
She bends her head and looks at her feet. For a second, I wish Rain Man hadn’t asked her that question more than I wish I knew the answer. Which is super weird for me, because usually what I want comes first. But Rain Man’s question lands so close to my secret that it makes me a little dizzy.
She picks up a stick and draws a line in the dirt. “It’s cool,” she says finally. “It’s not a big deal. Dad knows I know what I’m doing.”
“Pardon me for saying so, but you don’t look like you were planning for this hike.”
“It was a pretty spur-of-the-moment decision.” She pulls off the sweatshirt she borrowed, and for one giddy moment, I’m sure I’m going to get a peek at something amazing. But I turn away because, let’s face it, I can’t be that kind of guy. Not to her face anyway.
“Keep it,” Rain Man says.
“I guess I just needed to go for a really long walk.” Ghost holds the sweatshirt in front of Rain Man so he has to take it or it’ll fall to the ground. “I’ll sleep with my wet clothes in my sleeping bag like you said.”
“Good. They’ll be dry by morning.” Rain Man nods. “The thing is, I happen to have some of my wife’s clothes. She was a great hiker in her day. I can have them sent to the next drop for you. Wouldn’t be a problem.”
“I’m not really looking for hiking partners,” she says. “I need some time on the trail to myself, you know?”