number one in your Woodlore course, Doug told him in his imagination. Try again.
"You son of a bitch," he said. "You miserable son of a bitch, not letting me know which trail to take."
He winced as he realized how his right palm hurt. Looking at it, he saw dried blood streaks across it, imbedded dirt, scrapes, and scratches.
Kneeling— the movement sent a streak of pain across the right side of his back that made him cry out softly— he put his palm in the cold water of the lake, and removing his handkerchief, he rubbed it on the palm as gently as he could to clean it off. "Oh . . . Jesus," he said, his face contorted from the stinging pain.
How am I supposed to write a convincing novel about backpacking if I've never backpacked once, he heard himself telling Marian. He sighed heavily. Would that I had written that novel about Hawaii she suggested I write, he thought.
He straightened up with a grunt of pain and effort.
"Doug!" he shouted. "Damn it, where are you?!"
This time, the echo was more distinct. What, the open water? he wondered.
"What's the difference?" he said as he started back up the trail. Now how long was it going to take to reach the campsite? he thought. Would it be dark by then? He blew out hissing breath. Good ol' Doug, he thought. My pal.
He stopped to take another sip of water, then continued up the trail, leaning forward to keep the weight of the backpack centered. His water was really getting low now. What if he still wasn't able to find Doug? What if Doug did do all this to lose him? He shivered, grimacing. Come on, he told himself. Don't be goddamn paranoid. You do this all the time. What was that song Mel Brooks composed for The Twelve Chairs ? "Hope for the best; expect the worst," he sang softly. Something like that. And that was him. "You're a goddamn pessimist, Bob," he informed himself. As if I didn't know, he thought.
When he reached the split in the path and started along the left one, he tried to see what time it was but it was too dark in the heavy shade for him to read the watch face. He stopped and retrieved his flashlight. Don't forget to reverse the batteries, he thought. Oh, fuck you, he answered himself, switching on the flashlight and pointing the beam at the face of his wristwatch.
"Oh, my," he said. It was seven minutes after seven. This time of year, it was going to be dark soon now. Thank God they hadn't left after daylight savings time had ended or it'd be dark already. Damn you, Doug, he thought. Why did you do this to me on the very first day? It was unconscionable, really unconscionable.
He became aware that he was limping slightly as he walked. All I need, he thought. Days of hiking ahead and a limp. "Swell," he muttered. He was really getting angry with Doug now. What the hell right did he think he had to leave him alone on the first day of their hike?
His anger kept mounting as he limped along the trail. By the time he saw the glow of the campfire ahead, there was nothing left in him to react with relief at the sight. He was all anger.
"Hey, there he is," Doug said as Bob walked up to the campsite.
"Don't-ever-do-that-to-me-again," Bob told him in a low-pitched, shaking voice.
"What?" Doug looked perplexed.
"Do you have any idea what I've been through?" Bob demanded. "You don't tell me there's no way to cross that stream at the trail. You don't tell me there's a goddamn split in the trail."
"Bob—" Doug said.
"So I go down the right-hand trail and fall because it's so damn steep! I hurt my back, I scrape my palm! I find the lake and there's nothing there but water!"
"Bob!" Doug cried. "Take it easy. Let me—"
"Take it easy?!" Bob almost yelled. "I was fucking terrified out there! Terrified! I screamed your name as loud as I could! I blew your goddamn whistle until I was out of breath!" He knew his voice was breaking and he sounded on the verge of crying but he didn't care. "What the hell was wrong with you, leaving me alone like that?! You know I've
"You son of a bitch," he said. "You miserable son of a bitch, not letting me know which trail to take."
He winced as he realized how his right palm hurt. Looking at it, he saw dried blood streaks across it, imbedded dirt, scrapes, and scratches.
Kneeling— the movement sent a streak of pain across the right side of his back that made him cry out softly— he put his palm in the cold water of the lake, and removing his handkerchief, he rubbed it on the palm as gently as he could to clean it off. "Oh . . . Jesus," he said, his face contorted from the stinging pain.
How am I supposed to write a convincing novel about backpacking if I've never backpacked once, he heard himself telling Marian. He sighed heavily. Would that I had written that novel about Hawaii she suggested I write, he thought.
He straightened up with a grunt of pain and effort.
"Doug!" he shouted. "Damn it, where are you?!"
This time, the echo was more distinct. What, the open water? he wondered.
"What's the difference?" he said as he started back up the trail. Now how long was it going to take to reach the campsite? he thought. Would it be dark by then? He blew out hissing breath. Good ol' Doug, he thought. My pal.
He stopped to take another sip of water, then continued up the trail, leaning forward to keep the weight of the backpack centered. His water was really getting low now. What if he still wasn't able to find Doug? What if Doug did do all this to lose him? He shivered, grimacing. Come on, he told himself. Don't be goddamn paranoid. You do this all the time. What was that song Mel Brooks composed for The Twelve Chairs ? "Hope for the best; expect the worst," he sang softly. Something like that. And that was him. "You're a goddamn pessimist, Bob," he informed himself. As if I didn't know, he thought.
When he reached the split in the path and started along the left one, he tried to see what time it was but it was too dark in the heavy shade for him to read the watch face. He stopped and retrieved his flashlight. Don't forget to reverse the batteries, he thought. Oh, fuck you, he answered himself, switching on the flashlight and pointing the beam at the face of his wristwatch.
"Oh, my," he said. It was seven minutes after seven. This time of year, it was going to be dark soon now. Thank God they hadn't left after daylight savings time had ended or it'd be dark already. Damn you, Doug, he thought. Why did you do this to me on the very first day? It was unconscionable, really unconscionable.
He became aware that he was limping slightly as he walked. All I need, he thought. Days of hiking ahead and a limp. "Swell," he muttered. He was really getting angry with Doug now. What the hell right did he think he had to leave him alone on the first day of their hike?
His anger kept mounting as he limped along the trail. By the time he saw the glow of the campfire ahead, there was nothing left in him to react with relief at the sight. He was all anger.
"Hey, there he is," Doug said as Bob walked up to the campsite.
"Don't-ever-do-that-to-me-again," Bob told him in a low-pitched, shaking voice.
"What?" Doug looked perplexed.
"Do you have any idea what I've been through?" Bob demanded. "You don't tell me there's no way to cross that stream at the trail. You don't tell me there's a goddamn split in the trail."
"Bob—" Doug said.
"So I go down the right-hand trail and fall because it's so damn steep! I hurt my back, I scrape my palm! I find the lake and there's nothing there but water!"
"Bob!" Doug cried. "Take it easy. Let me—"
"Take it easy?!" Bob almost yelled. "I was fucking terrified out there! Terrified! I screamed your name as loud as I could! I blew your goddamn whistle until I was out of breath!" He knew his voice was breaking and he sounded on the verge of crying but he didn't care. "What the hell was wrong with you, leaving me alone like that?! You know I've
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