Lost in the River of Grass by Ginny Rorby Page A

it again.” I stare at the black outline of the willows for movement.
    Andy calls again, and Teapot swims out and straight into my cupped hands. I scoop her up and kiss her wet head. “That sound was cool.” I smile at Andy. “Where’d you learn to do that?”
    â€œFrom my dad. We hunt ducks, you know. We can’t run to the supermarket for every little thing. Our meat comes on the hoof, not bloodless and wrapped in plastic.”
    â€œI get it already, okay. Why are you mad at me?”
    â€œI’m not.”
    â€œYou sound mad.”
    â€œDragging that duckling along is making this harder that it needs to be.”
    â€œI thought we’d settled that. And besides, she hasn’t bothered you all day, so don’t start or I’ll mention a few more times how we
got
in this nightmare in the first place.” By the time I get to the end of the sentence, I’m shouting at him.
    â€œJust shut up about that, okay? I know it’s my fault.” He stops. “Look, I’m sorry. I’m as tired as you are.”
    â€œIt’s okay.”
    â€œThe closer we get to the trees, the more stumps and branches there will be. So watch out.” He starts off again.
    I’m trying to get Teapot to stay in the wet, cold sling. Andy has stopped and when I look up, he’s watching me with his hands on his hips.
    â€œJust go on, okay?” I say. “I’ll catch up.”
    I’m so suddenly aware of myself and how exhausted, scratched, bruised, and bloody I am—it feels like part of me is floating on a string just above my own body. I can see myself standing knee-deep in a swamp the size of frigging Rhode Island or something. My hair is dripping wet. My skin stings from too much sun. I’m cold and shivering and wrestling with a baby duck.
    â€œWhy don’t I put her in the top part of the backpack?” Andy says.
    My out-of-body vision dies away. “Are you sure?”
    He nods, then wades back and turns so I can unzip the top of the bag. My brother’s Swiss Army knife is the only thing in there. I start to put it in the bottom half. “Hold her a minute, will you?”
    â€œWhat are you doing?”
    â€œI’m going to line the pack so she won’t be sleeping in her own poop, and it will be easier to clean.”
    I cut a willow branch, strip the leaves off and coat the bottom of the pack. Andy hands Teapot over. I put her inside and zip it closed, leaving a pencil-sized gap for air to get in.
    I see Andy smile. “What?”
    â€œShe ran back and forth a few times, then plopped down and peeped. At least one of us will get some sleep.”
    As we begin to move toward the rookery again, the birds closest to us grow more anxious. A few lift off, squawking, then land a little deeper in among the trees, dislodging somebody else, which starts another argument.
    â€œAre we going to frighten them all away?”
    â€œI don’t think so,” he whispers.
    A few minutes later, a dark cloud moves across the face of the moon. The birds quiet.
    â€œLet’s go,” Andy says. “This is our chance to get closer without them seeing us.”
    â€œBut I can’t see either.”
    â€œTake my hand.”
    I do and feel his calluses again, dry and rough. In the dark, his hand feels like my dad’s. That comforts me.
    We move as quickly as we can toward the trees, which are now a dark silhouette against the far-off, city-light glow of Miami and Ft. Lauderdale.
    â€œLet’s steer right until we find a tree big enough to hold us.”
    Turning right will take us to the south end of the tree island. Last night—
just last night? Is it possible?
—at the slide presentation, there was a series of aerial photographs showing the teardrop shape of most tree islands. Their shape, Mr. Vickers told us, was because water in the Everglades flows north to south, and debris, caught in that flow, accumulates at