The Journey Back by Priscilla Cummings Page B

brother, Hank, who’s eight. No kidding. I bet they were the same age only this kid looked like a wimpy little nerd—one of those pale, freckle-faced bookwormy types who couldn’t throw a ball or shoot a basket.
    The boy seemed scared.
    I shushed Buddy and brought down my hand holding the knife.
    â€œI’m not gonna hurt you,” the kid said. “Honest.”
    â€œYeah, well, why were you spying on me?”
    â€œI wasn’t spying,” he said, pushing the glasses up on his nose. His voice got quiet. “I was just watching you. You and your dog . . . What’s his name?”
    I glanced down at the dog, who stared at my hand, ready to leap the instant I threw the stick. “Buddy,” I told him. “His name’s Buddy.”
    â€œI wish I had a dog like that,” the kid said.
    I tossed the stick and, while Buddy jumped in the water to fetch it, I sat down on the rock to take the weight off my ankle. While I folded in the blade and slipped the knife back in my pocket, I kept my eyes on the kid. “Who are you?” I asked. “And what are you doing out here?”
    â€œMy name’s Luke,” he said. “Me and my dad, we’re staying at the campground.”
    â€œYeah? Is it a big campground? A lot of people?”
    â€œPretty big. A lot of people.”
    â€œDid you tell anyone about me?”
    The kid shook his head. “Nobody.”
    â€œWell
don’t
, okay? I don’t want anybody to know I’m here.”
    â€œOkay. I promise I won’t tell.”
    I limped out of the water and up onto the riverbank.
    â€œWhat happened to your foot?” he asked.
    â€œI fell and twisted it. So it’s laid me up some. I was hiking the canal path. Me and Buddy. We were doing pretty good until someone stole my backpack.”
    I swung my head up to look at the kid. “Say, you don’t have any food, do you? Like back in your tent?”
    His face lit up. “Sure! I can make you a peanut butter sandwich.”
    â€œOh man. I would love it if you could make me a sandwich. I’d take two, in fact—if you can spare the bread. Boy, I would really appreciate it.”
    Just then, Buddy returned and dropped the stick at my feet.
    â€œAnd maybe one for Buddy, too?”
    â€œSure!” He turned to go.
    After this kid, Luke, took off, I wondered what I should do. Whether I should get going before he came back with someone, or just hide to see if he came back alone with those peanut butter sandwiches. I was pretty hungry.
    I stood and threw the stick again for Buddy, then touched my puffy black and blue ankle and sat down. I wasn’t ready to give up after all, and I was thinking if I could get some food we’d travel at night again. Even if I did have to limp along, we’d take it slow and work our way down the towpath.
    Sitting there waiting, however, I felt something sticky and made a discovery that was going to change my plans. Those bug bites on my face? They weren’t bug bites. They were poison ivy blisters oozing all around my eyes, down my cheeks, and across my nose. I had it on my arms and hands, too. Damn, I thought. I must’ve picked it up when I was lying in the woods that second night out.
    Soon, the kid was back—
alone—
and with a plastic bag full of food! Four peanut butter sandwiches, plus a couple bananas and two cans of Coke.
    I scarfed down two of them sandwiches right away while the kid fed pieces of another one to Buddy. Then I popped the top on a can of soda and drained it without stopping. I split the fourth sandwich between me and Buddy and then sat there peeling a banana.
    â€œBoy, I really appreciate this,” I said around a mouthful. “If I had a bunch of money I’d pay you for it, but like I said I got ripped off.”
    Luke shrugged. “It’s okay. My dad won’t mind.”
    I stopped eating. “Your dad? Did you tell him it was for