by Diane Cook
Across the fire she tried to catch Debra’s eye, but Debra would not look at her. Her mouth was set, her gaze stern. She had Caroline’s bag next to her and was fingering the soft hide strap. All at once Bea realized they must have been more than close. Debra had arrived with a much younger wife, and Caroline with a much older husband. Both of their spouses were gone now—one deserted, the other dead. The pairing made sense, Bea supposed. It had to have been something new. They slept next to each other in the sleep circle, but not together. Whatever had happened they’d kept private. No easy task in the Community.
Dr. Harold busied himself packing a new salve into a hollowed-out chunk of wood. Bea could see his cheeks blaze red even in the firelight as she stared at him, trying to be acknowledged. Carl couldn’t help but look at her simply to snarl and show he was still sore about the rope. She didn’t bother looking at Val, who she hated and who hated her. The surprising one was Juan, who looked at each person around the fire as he told the story, held their gaze a beat, and then moved to the next. But his eyes jumped anxiously, perhaps angrily, over Bea. But I saved your life, she wanted to yell.
The only person paying attention to her was Agnes, who watched her actions and irritatingly imitated each one. When Bea scratched her ankle, Agnes scratched her ankle. Bea mouthed stop, and Agnes mouthed stop. Bea shook her head and rolled her eyes. And so did Agnes, dramatically, as if to mock her. Then, as Bea’s anger sparked, Agnes put a hand on Bea’s knee as though an adult consoling another, and grinned with that broken tooth. Bea melted from her daughter’s goofy smile and the warmth of her hand. Bea wanted someone to be kind to her. She wanted some unconditional love. She reached to embrace her, but skittish Agnes slipped through her arms. She tried a new tactic. Bea yawned so that Agnes would yawn. She stretched her arms so that Agnes would stretch her arms out. She leaned back, trying to pull Agnes down with her to sleep. But Agnes wouldn’t be tricked. She didn’t want to sleep. She pulled her arms into her chest, stifled a real yawn, and scooted to Glen, pressing a curious fingertip into the flint shavings at his feet. Bea, dejected, stood up, shivering to be even that far from the fire. She did not want to sleep in the same circle as these people. Far off, behind some butte, coyotes yodeled to one another, friend, friend, friend, and Bea felt bereft at the sound of such communion.
What she could see was from starlight and from smell. She sniffed and found Glen’s bag with their bedding. Their scent was all over it. She laid it out on the ground some distance from the fire. She heard a crunch behind her and tensed for a moment before she felt Glen’s hands on her shoulders, kneading them.
“Tough day,” he murmured near her neck. She could tell he felt bad about ignoring her at the fire.
“You would have cut the rope, right?”
“Of course.” She felt his cheeks lift to a smile as he put a small kiss to her temple.
“But . . . ?”
“I might have waited just a tad longer.”
“Well, fuck, Glen. Did I just murder Caroline?”
“Oh no, no, no,” he said patiently, pulling her down to their bedding. “Caroline was dead the second that log attacked her.”
“Then what does the timing matter?”
Glen shrugged. “I guess it doesn’t. But if she was already dead, then what was the rush?”
“But Juan.”
Glen waved his hand. “Juan was always going to be fine.”
She stamped her foot, and Glen put his hands back on her shoulders. “Look, Juan was fine. Caroline was lost. But that rope wasn’t. Not until you cut it. People just need a minute.” He paused, then shrugged. “It was a really good rope.”
Agnes slunk up at that moment as Bea and Glen went silent naturally at the end of their conversation. But Agnes took it personally. “You don’t have to stop talking,” she lisped angrily. “I know a lot. I’m mature.”
Glen grabbed Agnes around the waist and flipped her. “We were already done talking,” he sang, dangling her an inch above the ground until her huffs and puffs became reluctant laughs, then shrieks of glee. Glen eased her down to the bed, and she arranged herself, as she always did, at their feet.
Glen and Bea nestled down, and in the ensuing silence Bea’s mind drifted to the sky that had shone white-hot above her when she had Madeline and she was grateful for the distraction when Agnes, from the bottom of the bed, cooed, “I’m sad about Caroline.”
“You are?” Bea couldn’t keep her surprise in, and she could tell from Agnes’s sharp breath that she was surprised by her mother’s surprise.
“Yeah,” Agnes said, though now she phrased it more as a question.
“Well,” Bea said, “Caroline was always nice to you.” If Bea were being completely honest, she thought Caroline was more aloof than Thomas and really hadn’t liked her at all. It wasn’t that she was glad she was dead. She just wasn’t that bothered to have lost her and felt uncomfortable about the level of mourning happening. It was bad enough to be blamed about the rope without everyone moping about Caroline too. She rolled her eyes in the dark. She was never sure what was better parenting—modeling compassion or just being honest. Agnes was so nice to everyone, even if she wasn’t always very nice to her mother. So she kept her feelings about Caroline, once again, to herself. “She was a lot of fun,” she said with a nod into the darkness.
“It’s just,” Agnes ventured, “I really wish we could have saved her.”
Even her daughter thought she’d cut the rope too fast. “You too?” Bea barked. “I suppose you really miss the rope as well?”
“Okay, okay,” Glen said, putting an arm around Bea and ruffling Agnes’s hair. “We need to get to sleep.” Bea saw Agnes’s teeth in the dim dark smiling up at Glen and Bea, realized she was being toyed with. Of course Agnes had heard enough of their conversation to know, or want to know, how that comment would sound to Bea. It was something Agnes was playing with lately—pointed comments, knowing looks. Testing boundaries like she had as a toddler, but now with a sharpness, a tartness to her. Agnes was playing at a lot of things lately, and Bea felt she could hardly keep up.
Agnes scrunched down under the skins, and her hand clasped around Bea’s ankle like it did every night. Bea fought the urge to pull it away. Bea tried to fit herself into Glen’s arms, but her blood was revving and she felt tied by them instead of embraced.
Agnes fell immediately into an unworried sleep, her breaths sounding like heavy drapes shuffling against the floor. Of course she had heard, Bea thought. Agnes was always listening. And she was right. She did seem to know everything. And she did seem older, more mature, than she was. Bea had fully lost sight of the baby Agnes had been. Found it hard to believe she’d ever been anything but this complicated person at her feet. She was short but she was solid, as though already fully formed. Much more solid than the other children. Glen always gave her more meat than he gave himself. As if on cue, Glen joined Agnes with his own sleep sounds. Bea stared wide-eyed into the dark night.
* * *
In the morning, a truck raced toward them, spewing dust. Far behind it the sun glinted against the roof of Middle Post. As the truck pulled to a stop, they saw it was Ranger Gabe. He was the son of someone very high up in the Administration, he had told them once, as though it were a threat. He was not well liked.
Some Rangers enjoyed being outdoors and conversing with the Community. But not Ranger Gabe. He seemed skeptical of them and of the dirt he walked upon. His uniform was always crisp and spotless, and he moved carefully, as though he hated to get it dirty.
He shut off his truck, sat a moment, then leaned long on the horn. The birds previously hidden in bushes dispersed in a cloud. The horn’s bleat echoed back to them from a faraway butte.
The Community, packed and ready to leave, gathered around his truck.
“You’ve got new Manual pages at Lower Post.”
“But we’ve almost reached Middle Post,” Bea explained. “That’s where we were told there were pages.”
; “And mail,” Debra said. She’d been very vocal about not having received a letter from her aged mother for a long while. She was unsure what it meant that she’d heard nothing.
“Well,” he drawled, his heel pumping the sideboard, “I don’t know what to tell you. All I know is there’s nothing for you at Middle. Nothing. You’ve got to go to Lower.” He squinted at the horizon like an explorer.
“But Middle Post is right there,” Bea said, pointing to the roof roasting under the sun.
“There’s nothing there for you.”
“But—”
“You’ve got to head to Lower. And you know where I mean, right? Even though it’s Lower, it’s not just lower.”
They looked at him blankly.
He scowled and pulled out a roughly drawn map of all the Post locations. Pointed to where he meant, an X at the very bottom of the map.
Carl growled, “Lower Middle? Why all the way down there?”
“Not Lower Middle. Lower.”
“But it’s right in the middle here”—Carl pointed—“and it’s lower.”
“Look, this one’s called Lower Post. And you’ve got to go there. That’s all that matters.”
“But why?”
“Why?” Ranger Gabe mockingly scratched his head. “Why? Because you left your last camp a total shithole, that’s why.”
“No, we didn’t,” said Bea. They did their micro trash sweeps. They’d found as much micro trash as they found after any time they spent anywhere.
“It looked like you’d been there forever. The vegetation was destroyed. It’ll take years, maybe even a lifetime for it to bounce back. If it bounces back at all.” Spittle had collected in Ranger Gabe’s beard.
Bea saw Carl getting vexed. She smiled ingratiatingly. “I’m so surprised to hear this. I feel like we barely unpacked we were there such a short time.” This was a lie. They’d been there much longer than they should have. Everyone knew it. Ranger Gabe knew it. This was a common dance between the Rangers and the Community. Bea figured they’d been there about half a season—an obscene amount of time to stay in one place—and the only reason they’d begun moving was because she’d wanted some distraction from thinking of Madeline. And people wanted their mail. They were supposed to stop only when they needed to hunt, gather, and then process what they had. They were limited to seven days in one place as stated in the Manual. But they almost never followed this. It was hard to start moving once they’d stopped. To pack everything up in such a way that would be relatively easy to carry for the foreseeable future. That smoker was delicate and tricky, and right after a hunt they were weighed down with meat. A good thing overall, but a lot more weight to drag around.
“Oh, please,” Ranger Gabe said. “Even around here is a mess. How long have you been here?”
“One night.”
He shook his head. “Incredible,” he said. “Well, maybe it’s just not possible to avoid impact when you’re a group this large. I’ve always felt that way. I’ve always said there is no reason for this. For a group to be here. I said they shouldn’t let you in. Have I ever mentioned that?”
“You have,” said Bea.
“Well, I’m not the only one who feels that way.” He spoke through a crooked, satisfied smile.
“If it’s any consolation, we’re about half the size we used to be,” Bea said feigning graciousness, thinking of the dead.
He glared.
She mostly liked the Rangers, even the mean ones. They were fun to banter with which is why she had volunteered to be the Community’s liaison. She found that a small smile easily disarmed them. They were young and always seemed new no matter how long they’d been there. To her they would always be soft-eared cubs. Except Ranger Bob at Middle Post, who was older, gray filling in the temples and his mustache. He was a peer. She would go so far as to call him a friend. A good one, even. But these boys were fun for her.
“Let me also add that you’ve been at that camp too many times,” Ranger Gabe said flatly. He could not let it go. Carl was pacing, panting. He would break soon.
“I thought the rules only covered duration of time,” Bea said coyly.
“No. It’s a whole presence thing. You’re impeding wildlife opportunities by repeatedly returning and overstaying. No animal wants to call this home while you’re stomping around.”
“It’s not about presence,” Carl exploded, and rummaged furiously for the Manual to prove his point.
The Ranger smiled and Bea sighed. She felt she’d been winning their unspecified game, but now Carl had ruined it.
Ranger Gabe laid a heavy hand on Carl’s shoulder. “Don’t bother, sir. I saw all I needed to see. What matters is impact. And yours is severe. I’ve already catalogued it extensively in my report and I will send it up the chain, stamped URGENT. Infractions like this can get you kicked out.” His eyes were as stern as his unwavering voice. There was no generosity here. “What you need to do is start walking in the direction of Lower Post.” He pointed somewhere in the distance, in a direction they’d never been. “As ordered.”
They’d been rerouted before, twice to be exact. Once due to a controlled burn (if it had been a natural fire, the Ranger made sure to point out, they would not have been rerouted, as per the Manual). Another time it was due to a septic tank overflow at Upper Post. They were moved to the next most convenient Post to tend to business. But this felt unnecessary, a task meant to endanger them. They looked at the map. Lower Post was farther away than anywhere they’d ever been. It was meant as punishment. An invitation to a forced march.
Glen eased Carl back, away from Ranger Gabe’s hand and out of reach in case Carl decided to throw a punch.
“You know,” Glen said, “we thought we’d done a good job with micro trash and re-wilding, but we will be certain to give it more attention next time.”
“If there’s a next time,” the Ranger snapped. Then he slumped slightly. He knew the encounter was wrapping up and seemed regretful. Perhaps Bea had misjudged. Having the Community here might give the Rangers something to do.
“Well, duly noted,” Glen said. “Now, it’s Lower Post, you say?”
“Yeah.”
“Great. We’ll repack today—you have to pack right for a trek like that—but then we’ll head there first thing.”
The Community sighed.
Glen smiled. “Gang, I personally cannot wait. Who knows what wonders we’ll see?”
Only Agnes cheered.
“That’s my girl,” Glen said, beaming at her gratefully.
Agnes beamed back.
Ranger Gabe got back into his truck and drove, squinting at them in his rearview. Glen smiled and smiled until the truck crested a mellow hill and disappeared. Then Glen’s face slackened. He massaged his cheeks.
“Well,” said Debra, hoisting her pack, “I’m not turning around. Not when we’re this close to Middle Post.” She took a few steps toward the glinting roof.
Glen put his hand up. “Wait.”
“Don’t tell me we have to discuss this,” said Juan.
“Of course we have to discuss it. We need consensus,” said Glen.
Everyone groaned.
“We’re barely a mile away,” said Debra, her feet dancing toward Post.
“Well, some of us don’t like to go to Post and would prefer to avoid it whenever possible,” said Val. She was only saying that to please Carl, who hated having to go to Post.
“But our mail,” cried Debra.
“Debra, our mail won’t even be there,” snapped Carl.
Debra flapped her arm in the direction of Post. “But it’s right there.”
“First, Debra, consensus is your dumb thing, so don’t complain,” said Carl.
Debra scowled. She loved consensus usually. She was the one who’d brought the idea to the Community.
“Second, you realize they’re doing this so we will disobey and they can write another report and then maybe they can get us kicked out,” Carl warned.
&nbs
p; “Since when are you so concerned with the rules?” spat Debra.
Carl blushed angrily. He hated the rules, especially when his desires aligned with them.
“Listen, gang, they’re doing it to get us to go somewhere else. They’re saying we’ve been lazy,” said Glen. “I think it’s a valid criticism.”
The allure of following the same route each year they’d been in the Wilderness State was great. If they knew the route, they knew what to expect. These plants grew at this time and they grew here. Those berries come in beyond that ridge, there. They had learned to read the land and decide where a ptarmigan had moved its burrow after they found the first one. They learned how animals thought and so they made better hunters. They’d learned how to survive in this quadrant of the map. Would what they learned allow them to survive elsewhere? Anywhere? They’d already passed through all the hardship of learning in the early days and come out on the other side, alive. They did not want to go through it all again.
“But what if we’re not meant to return?” Dr. Harold had broken away from the group and was pacing. He was so far away that his question was almost inaudible. A whisper, a secret only to himself.
“Don’t get paranoid, Doc,” Glen said kindly, and Dr. Harold seemed startled to be the focus of attention.
“I’m not. But look.” He pulled out the map and pointed. “Lower Post isn’t even the next Post. It’s just a place, a place very far from here, over a new range of mountains. These are dunes. These are dry lakes. And here”—he trailed his finger along—“is the only river I see.”