didn’t want to be around Derek Badger. Deep in the hardwoods, they were shielded from a breeze that would have otherwise kept away the mosquitoes. Now they were losing blood by the pint to the ravenous swarms.
Wahoo had set up a separate pup tent for Tuna, whopoked out her head and said, “I hear you two characters talking about me.”
Mickey didn’t miss a beat. “Does your cell have one of those international chips? Don’t worry, I got a credit card.”
Barely
, thought Wahoo.
Tuna pointed up at the clouds. “No signal way out here, Mr. C. Maybe when we’re back at the dock.”
“Sorry, son,” Mickey said to Wahoo, pretending Wahoo was more bummed than he was. Twice they’d tried to reach Susan Cray from the house before leaving on the Everglades trip, but all they’d gotten on the other end was static.
Tuna announced she was taking a walk. Wahoo’s father told him to go with her.
“What for?”
“ ’Cause you’re a gentleman.” Mickey looked serious. “Don’t make me ask twice.”
Wahoo brought a flashlight, mainly to make sure they didn’t step on any water moccasins or pygmy rattlers. A curtain of low ragged clouds blocked out the stars and the moon. The night air was warm and heavy; Wahoo wondered if a thundershower was coming. Above the western horizon they saw white pulses of heat lightning.
Centuries of water flow had shaped the island like a teardrop, the tallest trees clustered at the fat end. Tuna rattled off their Latin names as she walked:
Myrica cerifera
(waxmyrtle),
Annona glabra
(pond apple) and
Magnolia virginiana
(swamp bay).
Wahoo asked if she had a photographic memory.
She said, “No, dear, I just study.”
Before long they heard voices, and through the trees they saw the campsite of the
Expedition Survival!
crew. No fire was burning, but the clearing was well lit by cheesy bamboo tiki torches.
A young woman from the catering company was cooking T-bone steaks on a big stainless-steel stove of the type used at fancy river camps in places like Alaska. The director, cameramen and sound technicians sat in a half circle of folding chairs, drinking beer, slapping at bugs and laughing boisterously.
“Turn off the flashlight,” Tuna whispered to Wahoo. “Let’s get closer.”
“No way. We’re not gonna spy.”
“It’s not spying, Lance, it’s
observing
.”
They crouched in a thicket of coco plums and inched forward. The crew members were taking turns telling stories. Wahoo couldn’t make out every word, but he got the gist. Even the catering lady was giggling.
“Who are they talking about?” Tuna asked Wahoo.
“Take a wild guess.”
“Not Mr. Badger?”
“I’m pretty sure.”
They stopped moving so they could hear better. Thenext story, which was recounted uproariously by the show’s director, involved a close-up scene in which Derek accidentally snorted a live earthworm up his nose.
“They make him sound like a horse’s ass,” Tuna whispered cheerlessly.
“You know how people talk when the boss isn’t there.”
Tuna hadn’t been around Derek long enough to know the truth. She was a genuine fan, one of millions, so it would take a while for her to accept that the real-life Derek was a different person from the one she saw on TV. Earlier, Wahoo had noticed her disappointment when she’d learned Derek was staying at a luxury hotel, not roughing it in the swamp as he pretended to do on the show.
She tugged Wahoo’s sleeve. “Somebody’s coming!”
“Be still.”
One of the cameramen had left his chair and was cautiously making his way into the unlit wooded area where Wahoo and Tuna were hiding. He was only a few steps away when he stopped beside a bay tree and began to unzip his pants.
Oh no
, thought Wahoo.
Not here
.
In the shadows he couldn’t see Tuna’s expression, but he could sense her alarm. He touched her arm so she would stay calm—if the two of them were caught snooping, Raven would immediately fire Mickey, just as
Wahoo had set up a separate pup tent for Tuna, whopoked out her head and said, “I hear you two characters talking about me.”
Mickey didn’t miss a beat. “Does your cell have one of those international chips? Don’t worry, I got a credit card.”
Barely
, thought Wahoo.
Tuna pointed up at the clouds. “No signal way out here, Mr. C. Maybe when we’re back at the dock.”
“Sorry, son,” Mickey said to Wahoo, pretending Wahoo was more bummed than he was. Twice they’d tried to reach Susan Cray from the house before leaving on the Everglades trip, but all they’d gotten on the other end was static.
Tuna announced she was taking a walk. Wahoo’s father told him to go with her.
“What for?”
“ ’Cause you’re a gentleman.” Mickey looked serious. “Don’t make me ask twice.”
Wahoo brought a flashlight, mainly to make sure they didn’t step on any water moccasins or pygmy rattlers. A curtain of low ragged clouds blocked out the stars and the moon. The night air was warm and heavy; Wahoo wondered if a thundershower was coming. Above the western horizon they saw white pulses of heat lightning.
Centuries of water flow had shaped the island like a teardrop, the tallest trees clustered at the fat end. Tuna rattled off their Latin names as she walked:
Myrica cerifera
(waxmyrtle),
Annona glabra
(pond apple) and
Magnolia virginiana
(swamp bay).
Wahoo asked if she had a photographic memory.
She said, “No, dear, I just study.”
Before long they heard voices, and through the trees they saw the campsite of the
Expedition Survival!
crew. No fire was burning, but the clearing was well lit by cheesy bamboo tiki torches.
A young woman from the catering company was cooking T-bone steaks on a big stainless-steel stove of the type used at fancy river camps in places like Alaska. The director, cameramen and sound technicians sat in a half circle of folding chairs, drinking beer, slapping at bugs and laughing boisterously.
“Turn off the flashlight,” Tuna whispered to Wahoo. “Let’s get closer.”
“No way. We’re not gonna spy.”
“It’s not spying, Lance, it’s
observing
.”
They crouched in a thicket of coco plums and inched forward. The crew members were taking turns telling stories. Wahoo couldn’t make out every word, but he got the gist. Even the catering lady was giggling.
“Who are they talking about?” Tuna asked Wahoo.
“Take a wild guess.”
“Not Mr. Badger?”
“I’m pretty sure.”
They stopped moving so they could hear better. Thenext story, which was recounted uproariously by the show’s director, involved a close-up scene in which Derek accidentally snorted a live earthworm up his nose.
“They make him sound like a horse’s ass,” Tuna whispered cheerlessly.
“You know how people talk when the boss isn’t there.”
Tuna hadn’t been around Derek long enough to know the truth. She was a genuine fan, one of millions, so it would take a while for her to accept that the real-life Derek was a different person from the one she saw on TV. Earlier, Wahoo had noticed her disappointment when she’d learned Derek was staying at a luxury hotel, not roughing it in the swamp as he pretended to do on the show.
She tugged Wahoo’s sleeve. “Somebody’s coming!”
“Be still.”
One of the cameramen had left his chair and was cautiously making his way into the unlit wooded area where Wahoo and Tuna were hiding. He was only a few steps away when he stopped beside a bay tree and began to unzip his pants.
Oh no
, thought Wahoo.
Not here
.
In the shadows he couldn’t see Tuna’s expression, but he could sense her alarm. He touched her arm so she would stay calm—if the two of them were caught snooping, Raven would immediately fire Mickey, just as
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