The Dead Season by Donna Ball Page B

member behind…” Now my gaze went to each and every one of them, including Rachel and Paul, who certainly got no latitude from me on this point. “That’s not only mean, but dangerous and stupid. If even one of you so much as sprains an ankle, all of you could freeze to death. Do you get that?” Well, okay, so I exaggerated a little—we weren’t on Mt. Everest, after all—but that got their attention. The girls looked uneasily toward Lourdes, who stared fixedly at the fire, and the boys hunched their shoulders and shifted their gazes, the way boys do when they’re ashamed and defensive. “And finally,” I concluded, feeling I’d earned my wages for the day, “just so you know—don’t ever, and I mean ever …” This time I looked right at Paul. “Have one person carry all of an essential survival supply. What if Lourdes had slipped in the stream this afternoon and gotten the matches wet? What if she had lost her backpack somehow? Just take a minute and think about what you’d all be doing now.”
    Their faces, in the orange firelight, look sober—all except Paul’s, which looked quietly furious. Well, I couldn’t blame him. He’d look like a fool if he disagreed with me, but if he didn’t disagree, he would look like a fool for hiring me. Still, he had been wrong. And I wasn’t quite as anxious to impress either him or his wife as I had been before I’d started this job.
    I said, “Before you turn in tonight, I suggest each one of you check your gear. Make sure you have everything in your backpack you’ll need to survive in case you get separated from the group. That includes matches. And oh, by the way, you’d better hope you don’t get separated from the group.”
    I saw Paul open his mouth to speak, and—possibly because I can be a little petty, possibly because I really did still have the floor—I said, “One more thing. Drink plenty of water. Keep a bottle in your sleeping bag tonight, but don’t refill your pouches until the morning. Otherwise, your water will freeze.”
    I tried to watch Paul’s face, but I was distracted by a groan from Tiffanie and a giggle from Angel.
    “The world’s smallest bladder,” Angel said, pointing to Tiffanie.
    “And I’m not getting up to go in the middle of the night,” Tiffanie said. “There are animals and stuff in the woods, and besides, it’s cold.”
    “Gonna get colder if you pee your sleeping bag,” Pete jeered, and Tiffanie found a small pebble to toss across the fire at him. He ducked, of course.
    I said, “Get up. Go. There are no animals in the woods this time of year that are interested in you. Just take your flashlight.”
    The kids started to stir in preparation for rising, and Paul said, “One more thing before you go. You need to elect a leader for tomorrow’s hike.”
    I’m sure that this was an important part of the therapy program, and most likely teachable moments occurred every night over the campfire while the team members debated the merits of their leader’s performance that day. In the summertime, I’m sure that was the case. But it was full dark at six o’clock, the fire was dying down and the wind was blowing in from the northern mountain peaks and all the kids wanted to do was get in their sleeping bags. The silence that followed resonated.
    At last Lourdes said sourly, “If you ask me, the only one of you worth keeping is that dog.”
    Cisco looked up alertly from his dedicated grooming of the rabbit, which made a few of them smile. Somebody must have clucked his tongue, because Cisco got up then, his stuffed rabbit in his mouth and his trail swishing proudly, and started going around the circle from person to person, as though campaigning for votes. I let his leash drop and chuckled with the others as tensions eased. This is why they call them therapy dogs.
    “All right, enough,” Rachel said sharply. “You know the rules. No one goes to bed before you decide on tomorrow’s hike leader.”
    And the fun