the right, heading back in the direction he had come from just a few minutes before. East. Toward the river.
If he can figure out how to negotiate his way through the dense timbers and thick undergrowth, the flats up ahead will provide ample room to open up the ATV and race to the edge of the river swamp.
The tree bases are big and close together, the understory high, concealing cypress knees, limbs, and fallen trees.
He tries flashing his lights periodically again, but the woods are just too thick.
Slowly, the large tires of the ATV climb over unseen solid objects, around massive trees, edging the machine and its rider ever closer to the flats.
—He’s not here.
—What?
—I’m at the fire line and he’s not here.
—He turned off. Heading east.
—Okay everybody. East side of the fire line. Don’t just look for his lights. Listen for the engine.
Easing.
Crawling.
Inching.
Progress through the forest is so slow, it seems like he’s not making any.
It’d be a lot faster just to run.
I know, but there’s just a little more of this and then I can race through the flats.
But they’re headed this way. Getting closer. Just a little farther. If I have to stop, I will. They’ll be here by then.
The dense ground coverage is so thick as to be nearly impenetrable.
What should I do?
He wishes he could ask Cole. He might not be able to tell him what to do, but his answer would help calm him, clarify his thinking.
He remembers calling Cole from college once.
—If I take an extra class this semester and two the next, I can graduate in the spring. If not, it’ll be December of next year.
—Well, we’ve got the money, if that’s what you’re worried about.
—Thanks, but I just wondered what you thought I should do?
His dad had not attended college, had never been faced with a decision quite like this one.
—I can’t tell you what to do, he says.
Remington tries not to laugh. His dad had told him what he should do his whole life.
—It’s like you’re driving down the highway heading home.
Here it comes, Remington thinks. Conventional wisdom from the most practical man on the planet.
—There’s a car in front of you. There’s one coming in the other lane. You have time to pass. Do you? It’s up to you. You’ll get home either way. You can get there a little faster if you pass, but even if you don’t, you’ll get their just the same.
—Thanks, Dad.
—Whatta you gonna do?
—Pass.
—Let me know how much the other class and books are and I’ll mail you a check.
Tell me what to do, Remington thinks now. Do I abandon your four-wheeler and run on foot or stick with it and try to make it to the flats?
No answer comes. Cole is gone. He’s on his own.
The thought opens a hole inside him, ripping emotional stitches, tearing the inflamed tissue, reversing any healing his grieving had begun.
Gone.
Alone.
Stop it. Don’t think. Just move. Just react.
—See him?
Remington leans down to listen to his radio.
—Hear him? Anything?
—Nothing.
—He’s on a fuckin’ four-wheeler for Chrissakes. Why can’t we hear him?
—Big ass woods.
—Just keep looking. Listening. We’ll find him. Full stop.
The bottom of the ATV gets jammed on an old oak stump, lifting the wheels just enough to prevent them from finding any traction. Stuck. Fuck!
Boot on brake. Jamming the gear into reverse. Thumbing gas. Spinning.
Stuck.
Jumping off the Grizzly, Remington jerks up on the handlebars as he thumbs the gas and the vehicle bucks off the stump, the front left tire rolling over his left foot.
Hopping on again, he shifts the machine back into forward and steers around the stump.
Get off and run for it or stay on and see if you can make it to the flats? Pass or stay in your lane?
Unlike college, he decides not to pass, but to stay put.
I’ve got to be getting close.
Up ahead, the thick woods appear to thin out.
Almost there. Come on. You can—
—Remember Vicky Jean? Gauge
If he can figure out how to negotiate his way through the dense timbers and thick undergrowth, the flats up ahead will provide ample room to open up the ATV and race to the edge of the river swamp.
The tree bases are big and close together, the understory high, concealing cypress knees, limbs, and fallen trees.
He tries flashing his lights periodically again, but the woods are just too thick.
Slowly, the large tires of the ATV climb over unseen solid objects, around massive trees, edging the machine and its rider ever closer to the flats.
—He’s not here.
—What?
—I’m at the fire line and he’s not here.
—He turned off. Heading east.
—Okay everybody. East side of the fire line. Don’t just look for his lights. Listen for the engine.
Easing.
Crawling.
Inching.
Progress through the forest is so slow, it seems like he’s not making any.
It’d be a lot faster just to run.
I know, but there’s just a little more of this and then I can race through the flats.
But they’re headed this way. Getting closer. Just a little farther. If I have to stop, I will. They’ll be here by then.
The dense ground coverage is so thick as to be nearly impenetrable.
What should I do?
He wishes he could ask Cole. He might not be able to tell him what to do, but his answer would help calm him, clarify his thinking.
He remembers calling Cole from college once.
—If I take an extra class this semester and two the next, I can graduate in the spring. If not, it’ll be December of next year.
—Well, we’ve got the money, if that’s what you’re worried about.
—Thanks, but I just wondered what you thought I should do?
His dad had not attended college, had never been faced with a decision quite like this one.
—I can’t tell you what to do, he says.
Remington tries not to laugh. His dad had told him what he should do his whole life.
—It’s like you’re driving down the highway heading home.
Here it comes, Remington thinks. Conventional wisdom from the most practical man on the planet.
—There’s a car in front of you. There’s one coming in the other lane. You have time to pass. Do you? It’s up to you. You’ll get home either way. You can get there a little faster if you pass, but even if you don’t, you’ll get their just the same.
—Thanks, Dad.
—Whatta you gonna do?
—Pass.
—Let me know how much the other class and books are and I’ll mail you a check.
Tell me what to do, Remington thinks now. Do I abandon your four-wheeler and run on foot or stick with it and try to make it to the flats?
No answer comes. Cole is gone. He’s on his own.
The thought opens a hole inside him, ripping emotional stitches, tearing the inflamed tissue, reversing any healing his grieving had begun.
Gone.
Alone.
Stop it. Don’t think. Just move. Just react.
—See him?
Remington leans down to listen to his radio.
—Hear him? Anything?
—Nothing.
—He’s on a fuckin’ four-wheeler for Chrissakes. Why can’t we hear him?
—Big ass woods.
—Just keep looking. Listening. We’ll find him. Full stop.
The bottom of the ATV gets jammed on an old oak stump, lifting the wheels just enough to prevent them from finding any traction. Stuck. Fuck!
Boot on brake. Jamming the gear into reverse. Thumbing gas. Spinning.
Stuck.
Jumping off the Grizzly, Remington jerks up on the handlebars as he thumbs the gas and the vehicle bucks off the stump, the front left tire rolling over his left foot.
Hopping on again, he shifts the machine back into forward and steers around the stump.
Get off and run for it or stay on and see if you can make it to the flats? Pass or stay in your lane?
Unlike college, he decides not to pass, but to stay put.
I’ve got to be getting close.
Up ahead, the thick woods appear to thin out.
Almost there. Come on. You can—
—Remember Vicky Jean? Gauge
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