96 Miles

by J. L. Esplin

  Stew usually shrugs and gives himself about three or four days, tops. And that seems to be the standard answer among the diabetics I know. Three or four days. But I’ve never heard a doctor say that. And believe me, we’ve asked. They usually just start listing a bunch of outside factors involved—which can either speed up the process or slow it down. The food you eat, how much water you drink, your physical activity, hormones, stress.

  They never actually tell you the number of days.

  Cleverly tucks a stray piece of hair behind her ear, starts to ask, “How long can…?” as we walk back, but she doesn’t finish the question.

  I’ve been assuming he has three days. Three days to get to Brighton Ranch. And we’re only on the start of day two. I want to tell her that I know he’ll be fine for two more days. Instead, I tell her what I do know.

  “Without insulin, Stew’s blood sugar levels are too high.” I look down as I talk, frowning because it’s still hard to say this stuff out loud. To admit it’s really happening. “It’s called hyperglycemia. It makes him weak, tired. It gives him stomach pains, an unquenchable thirst. It makes him pee a lot.”

  “It makes him pee a lot?” she says, like she almost thinks I’m kidding.

  “It has to do with the extra sugar building up in his bloodstream,” I try to explain. “His body is desperate to get rid of it. But it can’t. So instead, it starts taking all the water in his body, and getting rid of that. Expelling it all in the form of urine. It’s why he can chug a half gallon of water, and it’s still not enough—”

  “John,” Cleverly says, cutting me off, and I look up in time to see Stew throw up for a second time—just lean over and throw up right where he’s sitting.

  She runs ahead of me. I watch her help Stew get to his feet; watch Will make a face and kick dirt over the vomit Stew left behind. It takes every ounce of control I have left not to pick up the first big rock I see and chuck it through the windshield of that stupid truck with no freaking gas left in the tank.

  Stew’s on his feet now. Hunched over, hands on his knees, head down, like he’s at a game and his coach just called timeout. He’s tired, but he can push through this. I’ve seen him do it before.

  “We have to get going,” I say right when I reach them. As if nothing has happened, as if my brother doesn’t look like he’s one vomit away from collapsing on the spot.

  I grab my pack off the ground where I’d left it and sling it over my shoulder. Standing up straight again, I notice Cleverly is squinting at me like I’m crazy or something.

  “What?” I ask a little too sharply.

  She just shakes her head and turns away. “Come on, Will,” she says, taking Stew’s arm, helping him stand upright. “We’ve got to get Stew back to the truck.”

  “Wait a minute—” I start, but Will rushes to Stew’s other side and they start heading back.

  “Hang on,” I say, getting ahead of them, blocking the way. “I know things look bad, but we can’t give up now—”

  “Stew can’t go any farther, John.” Cleverly explains this to me like she’s surprised I didn’t know. “He has to stop here.”

  “We can’t stop here, Cleverly. I’m telling you, if we stop now—”

  “We aren’t stopping here,” she corrects me. “Just us.” She motions side to side, meaning herself, Will, and Stew.

  My heart drops a little, warmth rushing my skin. I speak through the dryness at the back of my throat. “If you think I’m going to leave my brother behind…”

  She’s giving me this patient look that makes me feel like I’m losing it again. My eyes move to Stew for a second, then right past him. Will shifts his feet, a hundred questions that he’s too afraid to ask running across his face.

  Finally, Cleverly says, “It’s not like he’ll be alone, John.”

  We’re not completely alone, John.

  “This is what has to happen,” she says. “You have to go to Brighton Ranch on your own. You have to get … what Stew needs, and you have to bring it back here.”

  My head starts shaking halfway through her plan. “Leaving my brother now is not an option.”

  “It’s the only option.”

  “That’s not true—”

  “Hey,” Stewart’s voice cuts me off, cuts us both off. My eyes move back to him. “Stop talking about me as if I’m not here.” He doesn’t say it like he’s mad. I wish he’d said it like he’s mad. “John, ask me how I feel.”

  I can’t. I can’t get the words out. But he waits for me to say it. So I ask, “How do you feel?”

  He takes in a few short breaths. “Like that day we were playing basketball on the driveway, and I could barely bounce the ball, and I had to keep sitting down, and I crawled over and threw up Dad’s spaghetti in that bush.”

  Dad, scooping Stewart up off the driveway, putting him in the front seat of his truck, rushing him to the hospital in Ely.

  I turn my head away, face tight, eyes wet.

  “I wish I could forget about it. I wish I could pretend I’m not diabetic the way you can,” he says. “But I can’t. Because it’s happening to my body.”

  I lift the bottom of my shirt, cover my face, wipe away the sweat. Squeeze my eyes tight. Then I drop my shirt and look out at the highway with mostly clear eyes.

  I know what the truth is. I just don’t want to admit it. Stewart isn’t telling me he can’t go on because he wants to give up. It isn’t because he wants to die. He’s telling me that he doesn’t really have a choice in the matter. We aren’t in the same situation. We aren’t fighting the same battle.

  I finally agree to do what he’s been asking me to do all along.

  “All right,” I say, “I’ll go alone.”

  “Thank you, John,” he says, his chest deflating in relief.

  * * *

  My dad always said, if we ever find ourselves in a situation like this, stranded in the middle of nowhere, stay together. Wait for help to come to us. But the scenario my dad had imagined wasn’t anything like this. Who in their right mind would imagine something like this?

  I’m going to Brighton Ranch on my own. I’m getting help. I’m bringing insulin and water back to Stewart. There is no other option.

  Could it get any worse?

  Most of the time, physical activity is a good thing for diabetics. It helps lower your blood sugar. But if you aren’t getting any insulin at all, there comes a point when physical activity is dangerous.…

  That day on our driveway. Stew had been struggling to get his blood sugar down. He thought more physical activity would help. He didn’t know he wasn’t getting any insulin through his pump. He didn’t know he’d inserted the cannula incorrectly and the tubing was kinked.

  The nurse in the emergency room, starting an IV on Stewart’s arm, patiently explained to us that Stewart wasn’t just experiencing hyperglycemia, but something much worse. “It’s called diabetic ketoacidosis, or DKA. To keep up with all his physical activity, his body starts converting fat into energy. Which sounds great, but it’s actually not. Because the process in which his body converts fat to energy happens to produce toxic acids. They build up in his bloodstream, which is as bad as it sounds. The symptoms you want to watch for next time include weakness, confusion, fruity-scented breath, vomiting …

  “Stewart will be fine. But you need to know that DKA is very dangerous. If not treated, it’s fatal.”

  * * *

  I’m not taking my pack. I’m not carrying anything that will slow me down. I’ve got my Sharpie to keep track of miles. And I’m taking only what food I can fit in my pockets. Two individual packs of trail mix, two pieces of fruit leather, four of those peanut butter bars that make my mouth itch. I’m leaving the rest of the food for them.

  I don’t take a flashlight. I’ll be back before dark. Without a pack, without anything to slow me down, I’m giving myself six hours to get to Brighton Ranch. Twenty-three miles in six hours.

  I’m just hoping Mr. Brighton can drive me back. I
’m hoping he has some gas left in his truck.

  Will keeps sniffing, wiping his nose on his shoulder, but I pretend like I don’t notice. I don’t stay to help them set up the tarp. Just tell them they can close one corner of it in the passenger door, and tie the opposite end to the bumper, creating a triangle of shade in the bed of the truck, where Stew is lying down.

  Then I stare out at the highway again, walk forward a little. It’s long and straight for miles, but I notice again where it starts to curve to the right in the distance. The actual loneliest road in America.

  “Hey,” Cleverly says.

  I turn around and she’s got the second canteen. “Take it,” she says.

  “I can’t.”

  “We won’t drink Stew’s water,” she says, shaking her head. “Will and I already agreed.”

  Will’s standing on the bumper, holding on to the tailgate. He nods. No hesitation, like he’s sure.

  “I can’t leave you without any water.”

  “Will and I each drank a cup of water from this canteen,” she says. “There are six cups left for you.”

  My lips start to part, dry and cracked, but Cleverly puts a wry smile on her face. “Trust me, we’re only thinking of ourselves. See, we’re all kind of betting on you coming back with ice-cold sodas and cheeseburgers and fries and whatever else they have at Brighton Ranch. And we figure if you try to walk twenty-three miles in this heat with no water, then our odds will dramatically decrease. What did we decide the odds were again?” she asks Will.

  “Um, zero percent chance if you don’t take the water, one hundred percent chance if you do.”

  “Did you calculate the cheeseburger and fries into those odds?”

  Cleverly smiles but says, quite seriously, “You’re not superhuman, John. Take the water.” She holds out the canteen to me.

  I take it. I put my head and right arm through the strap, and then pull it around until the canteen rests against my shoulder blade. Cleverly’s eyes are on the strap the whole time.

  I look past her, to the truck bed where my brother is lying down. “I better get going,” I say.

  “Don’t you want to say goodbye to Stewart?” Cleverly asks.

  I shake my head, start walking backwards down the highway a few steps. “No, I’ll see him soon.”

  She nods, her brow furrowed. I smile at Will one last time, and he lifts his hand to wave goodbye. Then I turn and start walking at my full pace. I don’t look back.

  20

  THERE’S A SHARP pain high up in my chest, almost to my throat, and it’s worse than the soreness in my thighs, my feet, worse than the stabbing pain in my right heel, worse than my skull-splitting headache. In fact, I think it’s almost worse than the aching thirst, that stupid dry spot at the back of my throat.

  Okay, maybe not worse than the thirst. But it’s equal, at least. It feels like my chest might implode.

  I force air in and out of my lungs. The sweat that was once dripping down my forehead has dried, but my hair is still damp. I yank my shirt off over my head, not caring that the sun is beating down on my back, and use it to wipe the sweat from my scalp, and then my chest and back. Just because it’s bugging the heck out of me. Then I force myself to walk some more, no matter how pathetically slow, my shirt balled up in my good fist.

  I started out my solo journey with a strategy—whether it’s a good one is still up for debate. I walked as far as the first mile marker at a good pace, just so I could be sure I was out of sight. Then for the second mile, I pushed myself into a jog, and then into a full-on run.

  After walking all day yesterday, it kind of felt good to run. Using different muscles in my legs, muscles I haven’t already worn out. Pushing myself, releasing all that pent-up anger. Like a silent scream.

  But when I got to that third mile, I forced myself to stop running and slowed back down to a walk, letting my breathing go back to normal, my hands linked behind my sweat-soaked neck. Then as soon as I hit that next mile marker, I broke out in a run again, letting the scream out this time, because I needed the extra push.

  Walk one mile, run one mile, walk one mile, run one mile. For fourteen miles straight. Right up until this pain started in my chest.

  I wince at an especially hard inhale, the pain finally forcing me to stop—my walk had become more of a slow shuffle anyway. I hunker down on the side of the road, grimacing at my sore muscles, the pain in my heel, and then collapse to my backside. I’m not sure how long I sit there in the dirt, my head between my knees, just focusing on the air coming in and out of my lungs in painful drags, fresh drops of sweat hitting the ground. Eventually the chest pain eases up enough to convince me that I’m not having a heart attack. Still, I have to rest a little longer.

  I take my shirt and drape it over my head, my shoulders, my knees, like it’s my own personal shelter from the sun. Then I reach to the side pocket on my pants and take out my lunch: a pouch of trail mix—I swear, the packaging dates back two decades at least—and one of my dad’s peanut butter bars.

  Itching mouth aside, nothing triggers my gag reflex like peanut butter. I’ve always hated it. I can stomach most other kinds of smashed nuts, even if it makes my tongue itch. Just not peanut butter.

  The bar has kind of melted and then re-formed itself in the wrapper. I open it carefully and take the first bite, holding back a gag. The sticky granola, the sweet and salty corn syrup–coated peanuts gumming up in my dry mouth like molasses.

  My canteen is empty. It’s somewhere out there in the desert. Six cups is not that much water. It’s not enough. I drank the last of it over a mile ago. And I have to say, chucking that stupid canteen as far out into the sagebrush as I could was a whole lot more satisfying than drinking the warm, iodine-infused water inside it.

  One hundred percent chance if you take the water.

  I stop thinking about water. And when I’m done eating, done getting it all down my throat, I take off my shirt-shelter and pull it back over my head, pushing my arms through the sleeves and yanking it down my chest. The sweat-soaked cotton cools me down a little, but the back of my neck feels tight and tingly. A small sting, like the start of a sunburn. The sunscreen I put on before I left has worn off, and I’ve been sloppy about keeping my neck covered.

  I squint back at the sun behind me, guess that it’s late afternoon, maybe three thirty or four o’clock. I’m more than halfway there.

  The landscape has slowly changed in the last several miles. The distant mountains are closer to the highway now, crops of slate-gray and burnt-red rock jut up through the earth, creating narrows for the highway to snake through. I’ve veered off the winding road more than once, taking shortcuts through the wild grass that now fills the gaps between sagebrush.

  It’s all a good sign, the change in scenery. Just the sight of more green quickens my pulse, because it tells me that I’m getting closer to the Brightons’.

  I need to get back on my feet again, but instead, I look at my shoes. They were good running shoes up until this walk, have never given me a problem. My right heel, though … I’m dreading it, but I have to look. I have to take off my shoe. It feels wet back there.

  I pull my foot toward me, take the laces in my hand, but just as I do, the bottom of my pants pulls up a little. I see the blood. The back of my sock is soaked up to my ankle, dried around the edges.

  It started with the pain in my right arch yesterday, making me put more weight on my heel, the edge of my shoe rubbing against the back of my foot.

  I sigh and shut my eyes for a minute. If I had my first aid kit with me, this would be an easy fix. I could have bandaged it up a long time ago, made it so every step I take doesn’t feel like I’m being stabbed in the heel.

  It’s probably not a good idea to take off my shoe at this point. So I just roll back the edge of it, flexing my foot to see where it’s rubbing. I look at the gauze bandage around my hand—dirty with dried blood and wet with sweat. I think about taking it off, using it to wrap up my heel, but deci
de against that. Instead I just fold down the top of my sock and tuck it under the edge of my shoe, pushing it down deep, flexing my foot again.

  I get to my feet and the extra padding gives me a little relief, but not much. I still have to baby that foot. Walk kind of funny. Like a zombie.

  The zombie apocalypse.

  Besides my heel, the rest of my body feels worse after getting back up. I don’t understand why, but I’m weaker, shaky, every muscle in my body telling me to stop and rest again.

  I force breath in through my nose and out through my parched lips, filling my lungs, and start looking ahead for any road markings. A highway sign, a larger-than-average rock. I challenge myself to go that much farther, just as far as that shimmer of light ahead, the sunlight reflecting off a piece of broken glass. And when I get there, I give myself another goal.

  But when I get to the next mile marker, the one that means I’m supposed to run, I can’t make my legs move any faster, can’t lift them up any higher. My muscles are starting to twitch. Tiny jolts through my thighs, my calves.

  Ask me how I feel.

  I ignore the twitching, the painful drags of air, that dull ache that still sits in my chest. I’m almost to one of the narrows that brackets the highway, burnt rock shooting up toward the sky. Shade. And suddenly I hear that tennis ball thumping. Thump, thump, thump. Against my bedroom wall. The wall I share with Stew. And I know it doesn’t make sense, but I try to figure out where it’s coming from.

  Thump, thump, thump.

  My feet? My chest? My heart?

  My knees are in the rough grass. Blinking, swaying. Sagebrush scratching my arms, the side of my face. Breathing in the dirt. The taste of it in my mouth.

  I forgot to say goodbye to Stewart.

  * * *

  The air is cooler. That’s the first thing I notice. Then the noise around me fills my consciousness. The collective hum and chatter and click of a million tiny insects.