The Cactus Eaters by Dan White

put the book down and tried to stop thinking about it. Still, it was painful to think I’d be going out there without all the information I needed. I hoped, against reason, that this new guy, Todd, was not one of those goddamned Jardi-Nazis. In the state of mind I was in, meeting one of those cultists would probably derange me.
    The door burst open ten minutes later. It was Mark in the company of Todd, lean and muscular, with a Paul Bunyan beard, a black mustache, and a battered survival hat with a broad brim and a bandanna safety-pinned to the back to block the sun’s rays. This stranger was tall, with a leathery tan, sneakers instead of boots, and a trim pack, perfectly symmetrical; no bed rolls or food sacks noodling off of it. He was so full of vigor, taking giant steps across the carpet, that you would never suspect he’d slogged 454 miles from the Mexican border to get here. The man looked like he was returning from a spa weekend.
    “Good to meet you,” he said, heading toward me and Allison. “My name is Todd, but I call myself The Hydra, or Hydrox, like the cookie. Hydra is my trail name. I drink water all the time.” He beamed and shook my hand so painfully hard itwas like getting Rolfed. Todd the Hydra looked out the window and smiled at the waves of heat rising off the asphalt road. “Quite warm out there,” he said with a chuckle. He was sleek with a buoyant frame and ropey muscles. He seemed to fill the room as he moved through it, casting long shadows on the floor. He took a deep breath and sighed at all the stereo equipment and stacks of country CDs, the fuzzy carpet, the big box of muesli on the counter, and the shaggy houseplants. “This place is a palace,” he said.
    Todd slid his pack off his shoulders and leaned it against the living room wall. He sat down on the carpet and pulled off his trail-battered sneakers. He got back up on his feet, taking massive strides in his ankle socks. What feet he had. Size-thirteen monsters, so big they reminded me of Bigfoot, feral humanoid of the Pacific Northwest. Allison watched him intently. I envied his strut, his way of loping through a room, making it his own. Then the door opened again and a woman—his girlfriend, I presumed—walked in and made my heart stop. She was carrying some of Todd’s gear and a shrink-wrapped platter of cookies. Her dark hair spilled to a crook in her back. She leaned forward to shake my hand. As she did, she arched her shoulders, and I could not help but notice the sun-browned cleavage pushing against her tank top. Shyly I asked for one of the cookies, which turned out, on further inspection, to be peanut-butter-and-chocolate Rice Krispies Treats. Todd handed me the platter. “Knock yourself out,” he said. While reaching for a gooey square, I noticed that his girlfriend had left a yellow Post-it message for Todd on top of the cookie pile. “You’re special,” it said.
    “I’m Elaine,” the woman said.
    “But I call her my Sweet Elaine,” Todd said, “because that’s what she is. She’s so sweet to me.”
    “I meet him at every trail stop.”
    “She sure does,” he said. “I tell you, she keeps my spirits up.”
    Sweet Elaine giggled, leaving no doubt that the two of them had Yoga-esque pretzel-contortionist grinder sex at every junction. I loved Allison, and sure, we had just as much sex as most other well-scrubbed suburban New England couples. Still, it was hard not to envy a man whose relationship with his girlfriend seemed to consist solely of baked goods and fornication. Allison asked Todd about the HYDRATE OR DIE sticker on his pack; we were not aware at the time that it was the logo of the CamelBak company, which makes backpacks with built-in water pouches.
    “Humans lose so much water out there and don’t even know it,” Todd said softly, his voice turning grave and low. “We’re the only mammals on the planet who can’t gauge our level of dehydration.” He pointed to the Jardine guidebook, open