Page 53 of The Chaperones

Mona, the PTA mom

I’ve managed to hobble through the island pines and am somewhere along the exposed backbone of Montañon Ridge. The sun has completely vanished, leaving the sky striated like one of the tie-dyes Sawyer makes at craft camp—unfortunate on one of my James Perse shirts, but across the clouds, mesmerizing. If I make it off this island, I vow never to send another of those tie-dyes to Goodwill. I will wear them with the pride of a meditating, kombucha-making earth mother.

I smile through the burn that radiates from my ankle up to my hip. I still have my sense of humor. That counts for something, right?

I click the light on my watch, but it’s so dim I have to squint to read the time. It’s 7:47. By eight thirty everything will be dark. I need to get off this ridge before it’s pitch black. There are too many rocks to trip on, too many false paths to lead me astray. My throat feels like it’s coated in broken glass. I don’t have more than a few gulps of water left. I’m entirely out of food. I take one warm sip, wanting to cry when it reminds me how thirsty I am. It takes all my willpower not to drink the rest of the bottle. I’ve always been the most disciplined person I know. You were born to do hard things, Watson. Don’t crack now.

I return the bottle to my bag and continue, step by painful step, across the ridge. The wind batters me, and I can feel that my left ankle is comically ballooned. If it weren’t for my stupid injury, I’d be at camp right now. Brady should know this. He should have calculated the time and realized that I was beyond late. And Mona Watson is never late, not even now, hiking across an island. So why hasn’t he come searching for me? Surely, if he had, he would have found me already. He must not have gotten my message? It’s the only logical explanation. He must have assumed for whatever reason, I decided not to take the boat. I imagine him having a sundowner with the other fathers, trusting I’m safely at home.

If Brady isn’t looking for me, no one else is either.

I watch as the hills around me descend into darkness while the sky remains that pale tie-dye. I haven’t had to break out my flashlight on my phone, and I’ll resist for as long as possible. My battery will drain quickly once I turn it on. For now, there’s enough light to make my way, but the rocks have crevices and nubs I learn about as I trip over them.

It requires all my attention to make sure I don’t get lured by any false paths down into the brush. The sky doesn’t get darker so much as the light fades, like its color is being bleached out. For a moment I fool myself into believing it’s getting brighter instead of darker. As I take in the absolute knockout silhouette of the hills around me, my eyes land on something in the distance. Could that be . . . is my mind playing tricks on me?

I trace the shape with my finger, the long line at the bottom, the square at the top. It seems a hell of a lot like a trail sign. And if it is, the path to camp is down to the left.

Despite the pain in my ankle and calf, I’m all-out sprinting toward the sign. The cold, salty air feels amazing in my lungs. Medicinal. My feet tumble to a stop as I reach it. I run my hand along the two metal signs at a 90-degree intersection. There isn’t enough light to read it. I reach into my backpack for my phone, finding it beneath the empty water bottles, the Snickers wrapper that I briefly consider licking. Even now, Mona Watson does not lick trash. Besides, I made sure there wasn’t a single crumb left. I press the screen, then start hitting it when it stays black. It’s dead. How could it be dead? It was just at 33 percent. The prick of tears stings me. I inhale deeply and remind myself that phone or no phone, I have found the trail that will lead me to my family.

I hold my left wrist close to the sign, pressing on the LED light, which offers a hazy glow that does nothing to illuminate the trail post. I run my fingers along the carvings on the top part of the sign, an arrow that points in the direction I’ve come from. I follow the edge of the top sign down to a second sign below, perpendicular to it, and trace each of the engraved markings. My index finger follows the indentation of a curve and then another.

“S-C,” I say aloud as I follow the next letter. “O-R.”

“Scorpion,” I shout. My fingers trail the next line of text, the curve and straight engraving that form a P. I follow the letters until they spell Pier, followed by a 2, then a period, a 3, m.i. I’ve missed my turn down to the camp, but the trail ahead will take me to the harbor.

It’s 2.3 miles to the pier. 2.3 miles until this godforsaken day is over. Then the real fight begins.