Page 92 of The Boy Who Cried Bear
Dad used that phrase a lot. Under ideal circumstances, they’d do x. But their lives hadn’t been ideal circumstances for a very long time. The phrase had been, Max realizes now, a way for his dad to apologize for the life they led.
Under ideal circumstances, we’d have no problem with you spending the night at a friend’s, kiddo, but …
Under ideal circumstances, you could sign up for that summer camp, but …
Under ideal circumstances, his father would be alive, and Max wouldn’t give a damn about spending the night at a friend’s or going to summer camp. But that isn’t how things work.
Ideal doesn’t happen when you’re living in witness protection, and it doesn’t happen when you’re fleeing a kidnapper in the forest. Last night, after stabbing the bear-man, Max couldn’t just run for ten minutes and find a place to sleep. He’d had to keep running until he was sure he was safe, and by then it was daylight. Like yesterday, he’d only planned to close his eyes, but once they were shut, they stayed shut.
When he finally woke, it was with a start. He’d heard something.
Footsteps? The low growl of the bear-man’s voice? No. While he couldn’t remember what he’d heard, the feeling it left was one of excitement, his heart tripping.
He’d fallen asleep in the crook of a tree. It’d been more comfortable than you’d think. Or it had been when he first got in, but maybe that was just because he was too tired to care. He figured the bear-man wouldn’t look for him in trees, so that’s where he went. Now, when he tries to move, everything hurts.
Max carefully stands on the limb, stretching his aching legs. His stomach growls, but he’s not too thirsty. He’s been drinking from streams when he can. Probably not enough, but it’ll keep him from dying of thirst, which he knows is a bigger concern than starving.
It’s still daylight. Strong daylight, meaning it’s probably midafternoon. Good. That gives him hours to walk before dark.
He’d still been awake when the sun started coming up, and it’d been on his left. He’d even made a mark on the tree, so he wouldn’t forget it. He has a feeling Haven’s Rock is—
The sound comes again, and his head shoots up, some part of him recognizing it as the sound that had woken him.
A birdcall.
A birdcall he knows. Not the kind of bird, but that it’s the call Sheriff Eric uses as a signal. He’s been teaching it to Max, who really wasn’t very good at birdcalls. Max starts to try calling back, his heart hammering with excitement.
Then he stops.
His birdcall won’t sound like a real birdcall. What if that isn’t Sheriff Eric? What if it’s just a bird and Max makes the call back and the bear-man hears and knows it’s him?
Just do it, a little voice whispers. Take a chance.
Max survived two days in captivity and two more on his own, and he hadn’t done it by taking chances. He needs to be sure that’s Sheriff Eric, and he needs to head in that direction, not stand in a tree making weird noises that might alert his captor.
He takes another look around. Then, just as he’s about to slide down the trunk, the birdcall comes again, and this time, another sound follows. A whistle.
Max grins. He knows that whistle. As much as he respects Sheriff Eric’s birdcall, he’d rather learn how to whistle like Deputy Will, who can be heard so far away it’s like using one of those silver coach whistles.
Max isn’t imagining things. Sheriff Eric and Deputy Will are out here looking for him.
In Max’s excitement, he forgets he’s six feet up a tree, and he jumps down as if he’s standing on a chair. He realizes the mistake when it’s too late to do anything. He hits the ground, and his ankle twists, and he crouches there, squeezing his eyes shut against the pain.
Not broken. That’s what counts. His ankle isn’t broken, and he can walk.
He looks around.
Sheriff Eric’s birdcall came from the left. Deputy Will’s answering whistle was more south and seemed closer. He should head for Deputy Will.
As soon as he starts walking, he knows his ankle is more than just twisted. Not broken, but definitely sprained.
Is sprained different than twisted? All he knows is that each time he puts his foot down, it screams. He tries to inwardly scream back, like his dad’s drill sergeant voice, except Dad had been goofing around.
On your feet, boys. It is time for breakfast. Atten-tion!
On your feet, Max. It is time to get yourself rescued.
He might have laughed a little at that. Get himself rescued. That’s exactly what he needs to do. Get to a place where he can be rescued, and to get there, he requires the cooperation of his ankle. No whining. No “But it hurts!” Just move.
