Lost in the River of Grass by Ginny Rorby

there’s no swimming involved. This is the deepest water we’ll see. Except for a gator hole once in a while, the water’s only a few inches to a foot deep.”
    â€œWhat about water moccasins? Mr. Vickers told us they’re aggressive. One swam right at us when we were at Shark Valley.”
    â€œWe just have to keep our eyes open.”
    I feel totally exhausted and out of arguments. I put my face in my hands. “I can’t stay here alone,” I say. “Please, Andy, I can’t.”
    He stands and puts his arms around me. His wet shirt feels cold against the sun-heated skin of my arms. “Then you have to come with me. Those are our only choices. There’s no food. We can’t last a week or more on swamp water and a can of Spam.”
    â€œWe can build a fire,” I say suddenly. “They’ll see the smoke.”
    â€œWell, that’s a good idea,” he says, and strokes my hair. “Of course, we’d need dry wood and dry matches.”
    â€œIn the cabin?”
    â€œIt’s been raining almost every day since June. Nothing’s dry in that cabin, and there’s nobody to see a fire, and if there was, they’d think it was some fisherman cooking dinner. Nobody knows we’re missing. You have to remember that. Do you really want to sit here ’til we hear the first airboat or see the first search plane—days, even a week from now?”
    â€œMaybe it won’t take that long. We could wait until we hear a plane, rub sticks together like they do on
Survivor
and burn the whole cabin down. They’d see that, wouldn’t they?”
    â€œWhat’s
Survivor
?”
    â€œA reality show.”
    â€œIs that something on TV?” His tone is curious.
    â€œDon’t tell me you’ve never seen it.”
    â€œWe don’t have a TV.”
    â€œIf you’ve never seen it, how do you know that we can’t stay right here and survive on berries and stuff until we’re found?”
    He rolls his eyes.
    â€œI don’t think you should make fun of my idea if you’ve never seen the show. About twenty people get left on an island where they have to fend for themselves for thirty-nine days. They get fires started by rubbing sticks together . . .”
I think. Or do they?
I can’t remember. Weren’t the first competitions always for flints and a machete?
    â€œSarah, even if you could start a fire by rubbing wet, green sticks together, which you can’t, this place actually belongs to someone—remember? As bad as it is, they might not like us burning it down.”
    The duckling stands and stretches on one leg, then steps up on my foot and nestles down again. I pick it up and bring it close to my face so the tears I can’t control fall and bead on its back.
    Â 
    â€¦
    Andy goes back to the cabin for the cooler, my backpack, and my shirt, which I left hanging over the back of the swing. I can hear him opening and closing cupboards, but when he comes down the path, all he has is the can of Spam and a butcher knife.
    â€œThere’s nothing of any use to us in there except this.” He holds up the knife.
    â€œWhat are you doing with that?”
    â€œJust in case.” He looks toward the gator at the far end of the pond, then at me. “But if you’re staying, I’ll leave it, and the Spam, with you.” He holds the knife out to me—handle first.
    â€œAndy, please, let’s wait until tomorrow. Maybe someone will come by—a fisherman or a frog-gigger.”
    â€œNo way that’s going to happen, Sarah. Have you seen or heard a single airboat all day? We’re miles from where the Indians take the tourists.” He hands me the Spam, sits on the dock and slips into the water. “I want to get a few hours in before dark.”
    Dark!
The backs of my knees tingle like they do whenever I see someone else’s blood. I stare hard at the Spam for a moment,