Ethan looks surprised. Impressed, even. Cameron allows himself a tiny smile. “Used to off-road in the desert once in a while.”
“Aye.” Ethan nods and lopes off toward the appointed rock. By the time he returns, Cameron has already packed a pad of thick, dry dirt in front of the rear wheels and is peering under the chassis, using the edges of his hands like tiny protractors to work out the angles.
Cameron explains how it’s going to work. “First, we push the truck forward, even just an inch or two, and wedge the right tire with that rock. Then we come out at a hard left, then once the back wheels catch, cut right.”
“Left?” Ethan looks left, at the wall of trees. There’s maybe two feet between the side of the front bumper and the first row of thick trunks. “No, I don’t think so.”
“It’ll work. It’s just physics.” Cameron remembers so many of these conversations with his four-wheeling friends. They couldn’t see it like he could, the forces that would launch the vehicle this way and that, even when it seemed impossible. They’d sit there and spin their wheels, both metaphorically and physically. Looking earnestly at Ethan’s doubtful face, he adds, “Trust me.”
“Aye, then.”
Left, hard right, a splatter of gravelly mud in the rearview mirror, and with a stomach-yanking jostle that alarms even Cameron, the truck bolts up the road. Once they’re clear of the rut, he lets out a laugh. He’d forgotten how much fun this is, and this pickup is no Jeep, but it isn’t half-bad on the rough stuff. He glances over to see Ethan practically shitting a brick. A wicked grin tugs at the corner of Cameron’s mouth as he intentionally dips the front wheels through a divot, causing both of them to bounce. “Want to have some more fun?”
In the passenger seat, Ethan throws his head back and lets out a strange, almost canine, howl. “Let’s do it!”
Cameron slams on the gas. This is a hell of a lot more fun than fish and chips.
Day 1,341 of My Captivity
SEA CREATURES ARE MASTERS OF DECEIT. I AM SURE you are familiar with the anglerfish, which lurks in dark waters behind a luminescent lure that attracts prey right into its maw. We do not have anglerfish here （and I cannot say I am sorry for that）， but there was once a fascinating display poster about them in the lobby.
We all lie to obtain what we need. The seahorse, who impersonates a strand of kelp. The blenny, who poses as a cleaner fish, biding its time to take a bite of its gracious host. Even my own ability to change colors, my camouflage, is a falsehood at its core. A lie that’s on its last legs, I am afraid, as I find it ever more difficult to shift to my surroundings.
Humans are the only species who subvert truth for their own entertainment. They call them jokes. Sometimes puns. Say one thing when you mean another. Laugh, or feign laughter out of politeness.
I cannot laugh.
But I heard a joke today that I found clever as well as timely. I should warn you that the punch line is rather macabre.
The young family had paused in front of my tank and the father （for it is usually the father, which I suppose is why they sometimes call them “dad jokes”） turned to his small child and said: What did the tiger say when he got his tail caught in the lawn mower?
（Do not ask me why a jungle cat is in the presence of a turf-grooming machine. Jokes are often nonsensical.）
The child, already giggling, said: I don’t know! What?
And the father answered: It won’t be long now.
I would have laughed, were such a thing possible.
It won’t be long now. This is true. I can feel my very cells struggling to carry out their typical functions. Tomorrow, a new month begins, and perhaps it will be the last time I notice that Terry has flipped the calendar on his wall. My inevitable end draws near.
A Three-Martini Truth
Mary Ann Minetti’s farewell luncheon begins at noon on a hot day in August. Tova arrives at the Elland Chophouse ten minutes early. Unrelenting sunlight assaults her eyes, and she squints as she climbs the restaurant’s front steps in the poshest section of Elland’s waterfront district. Her ankle is still tender and shriveled from its weeks inside the boot.
“Mrs. Sullivan!” A familiar voice calls from behind as a steadying arm clasps her elbow.
“Laura, dear. How are you?” Tova inclines her head at Mary Ann’s daughter, a trim woman in her forties, accepting the younger woman’s assistance as she summits the staircase.
According to Mary Ann, Laura had arrived last week to help her mother make preparations. And it was Laura who organized this luncheon, who chose this fancy restaurant. Tova’s not convinced that Mary Ann herself wouldn’t have preferred coffee at her home, although maybe that’s not possible now that the house is being packed up and prepped for the realtors.