Lost in the River of Grass by Ginny Rorby Page A

then glance at the gator.
    â€œHe’s just waiting for us to leave so he can haul back out,” Andy says.
    â€œIf something got you, no one would ever know what happened to me.”
    â€œYou should come with me. I’ll get us out. I promise.”
    I think about the few times my family has gone to the beach. Even there, with them on colorful towels nearby, I never went in the water past my knees because it was too silty to see the bottom. I couldn’t stand the thought of what I might step on, or what was just beneath the surface looking up. The difference is that at the ocean, I’m pretty sure it was only my imagination; here the danger is real. The gator floats ten yards away, watching.
    â€œI can’t,” I say. My whole body trembles.
    â€œYou have to, Sarah.”
    I shake my head.
    He takes the duckling off the top of my foot and puts it in the water, then takes the backpack out of my hand, unzips it, and drops the Spam inside. He swings the pack around and sticks his arms through the straps.
    â€œIt’s best this way,” he says and holds a hand out to help me off the dock. “You’d never make it here alone.”
    I know he’s right and hate him for it. Hate him so thoroughly I can’t speak. I kick my foot like a child, sending the flip-flop spinning.
    He looks at me, but says nothing.
    â€œHand me the flight bag, will you?”
    I kick it off the dock, too.
    He catches it before it hits the water.
    â€œAre you going to carry that, too?” I ask, wiping tears away with the heels of my hands.
    â€œNo. I’m gonna hang it in a tree near the entrance to the channel. If anybody finds it, they’ll know this is where we started from, and they’ll know we went east.”
    â€œHow would they know that?” I sniffle.
    Andy shakes the bag. Something shifts inside. He unzips it and dumps out the flip-flop that matches the one that has floated across the pond and is bumping against the trunk of a pond-apple tree. “’Cause that’s the closest dry land. The levee is due east and much closer than the trail.” He holds his hand out again.
    I sit down on the edge of the dock, hesitate, then put my feet into the black water. Chill bumps spread up my arms.
    The water is to his waist and is covered with a sheet of pale brown scum, which has floated back and encircles his chest.
    â€œI’ll throw up if I have to get in there.”
    â€œI wouldn’t waste the food if I were you.” He tries to smile.
    â€œGod, this is so not funny,” I snap.
    â€œI know that. Doesn’t change anything. We’re still stuck.” He flaps his fingers for me to come on.
    â€œTen miles in this sludge.”
    â€œSeven maybe. Like I said, the levee is closer. Once we’re there, it’s dry land all the way to the highway.”
    Seven miles didn’t seem that far. I walk to school all the time—a mile or so each way.
Who am I kidding?
I take a last look at the relative safety of the cabin, then at the gator. He’s gone. Only a swath of small bubbles marks where he’d been. My breathing becomes shallow and rapid, and my heart thuds in my chest.
    â€œI can’t. I just can’t,” I say, but I close my eyes and am about to slip in when I hear a sound like someone slurping a Coke. My eyes snap open. “What was that?”
    â€œA walking catfish.”
    There’s a small splash as something leaves the surface. I hear the sound again and see a mouth in the water, or rather black lips around a hole in the water. Another surfaces, takes a gulp, and dives to the bottom.
    â€œAre they eating? I’ve heard about fish that can spit a stream of water and knock a bug right out of the air.”
    I’m stalling. Maybe, if we wait just a few more minutes, we’ll hear an airboat, or Andy will think of something else to try.
    â€œThey’re breathing. Come on Sarah.”
    â€œThey’re