Scott glances at his friend, losing some of his bluster. “But I swear . . .”
“You didn’t have a light. How could you have seen him standing all the way over there?” Neil points to the edges of camp, where night has turned the surrounding landscape into a wall of ink.
“It felt so real,” Scott says at last.
The water has started boiling in the cooking pot. Luciana gives it a second to cool, then dips in the bandana and resumes dabbing at his wounds. To give Scott credit, he doesn’t flinch as she starts flicking pieces of dirt and debris from the gouges on his chest.
I speak up. “Do you have a history of sleepwalking?”
He glances at me. “Sometimes.”
“Is it worse under stress? In unfamiliar places?”
“Yes.”
“Is that what happened five years ago?”
“Maybe. I’ve had episodes off and on since childhood. I wondered if that night . . . Was I really that drunk, or was I sleepwalking? Maybe that’s why I didn’t hear anyone call. But, lately . . . it’s gotten worse.”
“Post–Tim’s disappearance?”
Scott doesn’t look at me. “Post-marriage.”
“Guilt walking,” Neil coughs, an edge in voice.
Scott doesn’t answer. There is plenty of collective blame from that single camping trip, but looking at the friends now, it’s clear Scott carries an extra load. If he hadn’t disappeared, if Tim hadn’t gone for help . . .
If Scott hadn’t married his best friend’s former fiancée? His actions, then and now, have further isolated him. Miggy was right. They are not a band of brothers anymore. They are the walking wounded, inflicting further damage as they thrash around in their pain.
“Why were you screaming?” I ask.
“Screaming? I wasn’t screaming.”
“Maybe when you ripped open your chest,” Luciana comments soothingly. “That looks worthy of a yelp or two.”
“I don’t remember screaming,” Scott says uncertainly.
I have another question: “If you started out chasing . . . your vision . . . into the woods, how did you end up behind us on the other side of camp?”
“I have no idea. I saw Tim. I remember seeing Tim. Then . . . I’m not sure what happened next. Maybe it was just a nightmare.”
A fresh noise. We all spook, our nerves on edge. Nemeth immediately shoulders the rifle.
Bob lumbers into camp. He has boots on but unlaced and an open shirt revealing a torso covered with as much furry red hair as is on his face. There’s a streak of blood on his forehead, but it doesn’t seem to bother him as he snaps off his flashlight and asks, “What happened to our food?”
* * *
—
Luciana, Miggy, and Neil stay with Scott to finish tending his wounds. No need for stitches, Luciana offers up. But definitely the gashes need a thorough disinfecting before being glued shut.
I’ve stayed in communities where superglue is all anyone can afford for healthcare. I’m still not sure I want to watch someone have their chest closed up with a tube of adhesive.
So I follow Nemeth, Martin, and Bob away from the camp, to where Nemeth hung up our food and trash in scentproof garbage bags. Two of the three black bags are now nothing more than gutted pi?atas, their contents strewn all over the forest floor.
Nemeth keeps the rifle at the ready as he squats down, inspects the ground, then the scattered trail of MREs. I click on my headlamp and do my best to illuminate the surrounding area.
The bags were suspended by ropes to about eight feet off the ground. The rope is still intact and tied to its anchor point. Just the food sacks seem to have been destroyed, the plastic sliced into ribbons.
“I thought they were bearproof,” I say.
Nemeth glances at me but doesn’t answer. He duckwalks closer to the epicenter of the damage.
“Nothing is a hundred percent bearproof,” Bob answers at last.
“Why hang everything up? Don’t bears climb?”
“Bears aren’t the only wildlife we’re trying to dissuade.”
I peer up eight feet again. “That’s one big bear.”
Bob shrugs, as if not particularly impressed. Maybe compared to Bigfoot, eight feet doesn’t seem so big. Or compared to his own massive self. Personally, I’m rethinking my policy of relying on a plastic whistle.
Bob unties the rope now, lowering the surviving sack to peer inside. “Dog food,” he declares. “At least Daisy still has her dinner.”
“We’ll need to gather what we can,” Martin announces, indicating the tossed rations. “Take inventory.”