Lost in the River of Grass by Ginny Rorby Page B

fish, aren’t they?”
    â€œYeah. Air-breathing fish.” He flaps his hand again.
    I close my eyes, say a little prayer, and tip forward off the dock.

7
    The water was waist-deep on Andy, so I expect it to be chest-high on me. A scream catches in my throat as water pours over the tops of my boots. The added weight pulls me under and throws me off balance. I have a split second to gulp air like one of those catfish before landing on my hands and knees in mud that is up to my elbows. I try to swim out of my boots, but the angle is wrong. The harder I struggle, the deeper I sink until I’m on my belly, up to my armpits in the ooze with the boots clamped like vises around my ankles. Air leaves my mouth in a big brown bubble as I try to roll on my side. My eyes are open, but I can’t see anything through the mud I’ve churned up. I pull an arm free and wave it above my head, hitting a dock post. Not a post; Andy’s arm. I feel his hands around my wrist. He nearly pulls my arm out of its socket as he drags me upright. The water comes to my chin.
    I gulp air and cough until my throat is raw. “What are you standing on?” I croak.
    â€œThe deck of the airboat.” He leans and lifts me up into it with him.
    My yellow T-shirt is slimy and brown. I cup my hands and bring water up to wash the mud off my face.
    â€œI forgot you had those boots on. You can’t walk in those.” He puts his hands in my armpits and transfers me to the dock like a sack of potatoes. “You’ll have to take ’em off.”
    â€œThey are off. They’re down there.”
    Andy gets on his knees, turns his head, puts his cheek against the water, and feels around until he finds first one then the other. He drags them up, rinses them out, and puts them the dock beside me.
    â€œNow what?”
    He sighs. “I’m not sure, but there’s no way you can walk in those.”
    â€œWe’ll have to stay here and wait for help, I guess.” My tone of voice is hopeful. I lean over to rinse my arms, then splash water on my shirt, trying to wash the mud off.
    He makes a hiccup of a laugh and shakes his head. “That’s the option we don’t have.”
    Although the idea of nothing to protect my feet makes me sick, I point to the one of Andy’s giant flip-flops that’s now washed across the pond and is lodged between two cypress knees. “Could I wear those?” I look for the one I kicked off the dock. It’s in the cattails that guard the channel into this place.
    â€œYou’d break an ankle for sure if you did. It’s like walking across a coral reef out there—uneven, with dead trees and stuff hidden beneath the surface.”
    Beneath the surface.
Those are the three scariest words in the English language to me right now.
    â€œOnce we’re out of this pond, won’t the water be shallow? Shallow enough to wear the boots without them filling up?”
    â€œIn a few places, maybe, but what about when it’s not?” He slips his arms out of my backpack and puts it on the dock beside me. The bottom half is sopping wet; water gushes out through the zipper and drips from holes in the stitching.
    â€œMy Dad’s binoculars and camera are in there.”
    â€œWell, they’re done for now,” he says flatly.
    Please, not Dad’s camera
. I’m reaching for the pack when something in the water startles the duckling and it comes at us from near the propeller cage, its feet slapping the surface and wing nubs flapping.
    I grab Andy’s arm. “What’s that?”
    We both look toward the end of the pond where we last saw the gator. He’s farther away, but still watching us with just his nose and bubble-shaped eyes above the surface.
    â€œMaybe there’s another one somewhere.”
    Andy looks at me like I’m an idiot. “I think you can count on seeing another one or two.” He unzips the bottom section