The Survivors by Will Weaver Page A

another nail.
    â€œShe’s not sleeping in the cabin,” Sarah says.
    â€œThat’s what I said,” Miles answers.
    A flock of about a dozen ducks flies over low. They are mallards—green-headed males and dusky brown females. The lead duck cups the white undersides of its wings for a touchdown upriver. They’ve been coming and going, morning and night, in the same landing pattern for the last few days. Miles cocks his head. “I’m going hunting,” he says suddenly, and hands his hammer to Sarah.
    â€œWe have to finish this!”
    â€œKeep nailing boards,” Miles says. “I won’t be gone long.” He takes his shotgun and heads along the riverbank.
    The mallards are just upstream, out of sight in thin yellow reeds; they chuckle and quack and bob. Staying low, Miles creeps closer until he is within shotgun range. A big greenhead male floats into the open; Miles raises his gun. Never shoot more than once during a day . One shot, and nobody knows for sure where it came from. It’s the second shot that tells them where you are . His finger tightens on the trigger, but a brownish female mallard paddles into view, blocking his shot. A mother duck. Three smaller ducks paddle behind her—a little family—and Miles can’t bring himself to pull the trigger. She flutters through the reeds, and immediately the little ducklings swim behind her, pecking at the water. Miles squints. Leans forward to look closer. The duck family is eating wild rice. He should have remembered this—the wild rice—from Mr. Kurz’s stories.
    He stands up suddenly—the mallards quack loudly and flare straight up from the water—but he doesn’t shoot. Instead, he heads quickly back to the cabin.
    Sarah spots him as he emerges from the brush. “Did you get anything? I didn’t hear you shoot.”
    â€œDidn’t want to shoot. Got something better. Put down the hammer; we’re going wild ricing!”
    In the battered, camouflage-painted canoe (another score from Old But Gold), he and Sarah paddle upstream. His shotgun lies in the bottom of the boat, along with two skinny sticks. Use wooden sticks: one to bend the rice plants over your canoe, the other to knock the heads off. That’s what your flail stick is for. Bend and flail, bend and flail. If the rice beds are good, you can make a hundred dollars a day. Me, I only riced for what I needed to eat. One sack of raw, green rice was plenty. Then you have to clean it and dry it—parch it slow over a wood fire in a big iron kettle, one that’s heavy enough so the rice won’t burn. Most people are not good at parching. They want to cure it fast, but it takes time....
    â€œI don’t know what I’m doing,” Sarah says.
    â€œJust paddle,” Miles says to her.
    â€œI knew there was a reason you put me in the back.” She groans.
    â€œThe stern,” Miles says. “I’m in the bow.”
    â€œWhere do I paddle?”
    â€œRight through there,” Miles says, pointing to the rice bed. The stalks tower head-high alongside the canoe—and grains of rice fall at first touch.
    â€œSlower!” Miles calls back to Sarah. Clumsily he works the two sticks. Lots of rice falls into the water, but more and more of the little heads fall into the canoe. Gradually Miles finds the right rhythm and touch.
    â€œIck—the grains have little green worms!” Sarah says.
    â€œMore protein,” Miles says.
    â€œThey’re sharp, too,” she says of the little rice spears; she tries to brush them off, but they stick to her jeans.
    â€œWe’re lucky there’s any rice left,” Miles says. “Keep going.”
    They work back and forth through the river bend for an hour, until the bottom of the canoe is furry and thick: a shaggy carpet of raw, green rice.
    â€œCan we go home now?” Sarah whines.
    â€œOkay, okay,” Miles says. As they