Lost in the River of Grass by Ginny Rorby

believe the gators
are
more afraid of us than we are of them, but I know a panther is different, and given a choice between me and Andy, it will pick me—the smaller, weaker one of the two.
    There are moments, usually after the final cry of something dying, when the glades fall silent and there is only the sound of our labored breathing, soft moans when our feet hit something we have to step over, and the enduring sound of pushing through the weed-choked water. But when we stand still and rest, I can see that it’s kind of pretty. The moon’s reflection on the open patches of water is like a silver road to follow, and tree islands float like dark ships at sea. Off to the south a barred owl—the one bird I know by its call—hoots, and from the other direction another answers. I wonder if Mr. Vickers has ever seen it like this.
    We’ve been walking long enough for the moon to shrink from an enormous orange ball on the horizon to its high-in-the-sky size when Andy stops suddenly, causing me to run into his back. “Smell that?” he says, sniffing the air.
    I do. The breeze—which has kept the mosquitoes thinned—is out of the east and it carries the odor of bird poop—lots of bird poop.
    â€œThat’s it,” Andy whispers. “The rookery.” He turns and puts a finger to his lips.
    We move as quietly as we can, but the birds can see us coming. The moon is that bright, and it makes them more and more edgy. The closer we get to the stand of cypress and willows, the more restless they become. There’s lots of wing-flapping, squawking, and pecking at each other. Some take off and circle, trying to find a better branch to settle on.
    Andy’s promise we would eat some of the dreaded Spam when we get to the roost makes my stomach start to rumble, and my legs get heavier in anticipation of stopping. Before swim meets, especially now that I’m on a scholarship, I sometimes have dreams like this where the more desperate I am to touch the wall, the heavier my arms and legs become, until it feels like I’m trying to swim through molasses.
    I stop for a second to catch my breath and lean over with my hands on my knees. Teapot dangles in the sling around my neck. She’s asleep, with her brown, yellow-cheeked head turned and tucked between her wings. I wonder for the millionth time today how I’d gotten myself into this mess.
    Andy has stopped to wait for me. I cushion Teapot so she doesn’t bounce against my chest, then straighten and start up again. I’ve taken two steps when my leg bumps a submerged tree trunk. I try to step over it but can’t lift my foot high enough. I pitch forward, facedown with my arms out to break my fall. I feel Teapot struggling to get out from beneath me, but my arms are tangled in the branches of the tree and I can’t get leverage to roll over. My head is underwater, so when I scream, the bubble of air breaks across my face.
    I know better, but it’s all I can do to keep from gasping for air beneath the surface. I fight and twist, trying to pull my arms free. Even underwater, I hear Andy crashing toward me then feel his hands in my armpits. He draws me, tree trunk and all, backwards so that I end up on my knees in the water with my arms still tangled in the dripping, slimy limbs. Teapot wiggles out of my bandana, drops into the water, and swims out of sight into some willows.
    â€œTeapot,” I cry. Then start to choke.

11
    Andy snaps branches off until my arms are free, then pulls me to my feet. Blood seeps from a dozen cuts.
    â€œTeapot!” I pat my thigh.
    â€œYou’re welcome,” Andy says.
    â€œI’m sorry. Thank you. Just help me find her first.” I look at him. “And don’t say a word.”
    â€œWhy would I waste my breath?” Andy puts a fist to his lips and makes a sound that is remarkably duck-like.
    â€œPeep, peep,” comes the answer from the weeds.
    â€œDo