in the middle of a mangrove swamp.
“Beer?” he offers, reaching for his pack, which is still slung from my shoulder. I hand it over and he pulls out two beers and a bag of chips.
I’m light-headed with relief at the sight of food, despite the fact we’re royally screwed and probably won’t survive the night. There’s nowhere to sit, so the best we can do is break off a few mangrove branches and make a spiky pile that gets us inches out of the mud. As night falls, bats swoop all around us and the birdsong is replaced by an eerie clacking.
“What is that?” I ask.
“Crabs.”
I look around. Sure enough, we’re surrounded by heaving masses of crabs scuttling about like armored spiders in the fading light.
“They’re not dangerous,” says Zach unconvincingly.
“I think we’re going to have to stay here till morning.” I consider adding that he should have told me when he first realized he might have miscounted the paths. I can’t believe I let him get me into this mess and all to get information on voodoo dolls, which I don’t even believe in. But as I look at Zach staring at the ground, his shoulders drooping, I just don’t have the heart to add to his misery by complaining.
“It’s not your fault, Zach.”
“I got us lost.”
“The croc got us lost.”
“I always mess up,” he says quietly.
I know the feeling, which makes me determined not to let Zach feel that way. I try to make out his expression in the gloom, but we’re sitting awkwardly, side by side, on our twiggy nest and he’s pointedly turned away from me.
“It’s a nice night,” I say, trying to sound cheerful. “It’s not so hot now and it’s not raining. Things could be a lot worse, Zach. In the morning, we’ll figure out where we are and walk out of here. It’s no big deal.”
He doesn’t answer and, if anything, slumps lower onto our twiggy perch.
“How old are you?” Maybe I can take his mind off our situation. I’d been assuming he was Pat’s age, but now I’m not so sure.
“Official or real age?”
I smile. “Both.”
“My ID says I’m twenty. That’s what people here think I am.”
“Twenty? They really believe you’re twenty?”
“Yeah,” he says. “Why wouldn’t they?”
“No reason,” I say quickly. “It’s just, if you were getting a fake ID, I would have thought you might go for something a little younger. Pat says you only need to be eighteen to become a dive master.”
“I needed to be eighteen when I was fifteen,” he says in a low voice. “I got the fake ID when my mom kicked me out. So now that I’m seventeen, I’m twenty. You get it?”
“I think so,” I say. “So you’ve been on your own for two years?”
He grunts, which I take to mean yes.
“I’m really sorry, man,” I say and know exactly how meaningless that sounds because people keep saying it to me.
“It’s probably for the best,” he says wearily. “My mom went through a lot of boyfriends after my dad left, but they all had one thing in common. They liked to hit. The first time I hit back, she kicked me out, but I was pretty much ready to leave by then anyway. Are your parents still together?”
“That’s one way of putting it,” I say. “Mom’s threatened to leave a couple of times but she never does. Sometimes she gets worked up and says Dad’s ruined her life, but only when she’s really wasted.”
“Your mom gets wasted?” Zach sounds way more disapproving than I would have expected for a guy who considers beer one of the basic food groups.
“My parents were our age when Mom got pregnant. They weren’t even dating. Dad was taking photos of my mom forthe school paper. She was head cheerleader, and he had this huge nerdy crush on her. I think they only hooked up the one time, but they hit the jackpot. Pat says Mom wishes she’d never had us. There may be some truth to that but it’s not that simple. My mom loves us.
“I don’t think anyone is thrilled to have a baby when
“Beer?” he offers, reaching for his pack, which is still slung from my shoulder. I hand it over and he pulls out two beers and a bag of chips.
I’m light-headed with relief at the sight of food, despite the fact we’re royally screwed and probably won’t survive the night. There’s nowhere to sit, so the best we can do is break off a few mangrove branches and make a spiky pile that gets us inches out of the mud. As night falls, bats swoop all around us and the birdsong is replaced by an eerie clacking.
“What is that?” I ask.
“Crabs.”
I look around. Sure enough, we’re surrounded by heaving masses of crabs scuttling about like armored spiders in the fading light.
“They’re not dangerous,” says Zach unconvincingly.
“I think we’re going to have to stay here till morning.” I consider adding that he should have told me when he first realized he might have miscounted the paths. I can’t believe I let him get me into this mess and all to get information on voodoo dolls, which I don’t even believe in. But as I look at Zach staring at the ground, his shoulders drooping, I just don’t have the heart to add to his misery by complaining.
“It’s not your fault, Zach.”
“I got us lost.”
“The croc got us lost.”
“I always mess up,” he says quietly.
I know the feeling, which makes me determined not to let Zach feel that way. I try to make out his expression in the gloom, but we’re sitting awkwardly, side by side, on our twiggy nest and he’s pointedly turned away from me.
“It’s a nice night,” I say, trying to sound cheerful. “It’s not so hot now and it’s not raining. Things could be a lot worse, Zach. In the morning, we’ll figure out where we are and walk out of here. It’s no big deal.”
He doesn’t answer and, if anything, slumps lower onto our twiggy perch.
“How old are you?” Maybe I can take his mind off our situation. I’d been assuming he was Pat’s age, but now I’m not so sure.
“Official or real age?”
I smile. “Both.”
“My ID says I’m twenty. That’s what people here think I am.”
“Twenty? They really believe you’re twenty?”
“Yeah,” he says. “Why wouldn’t they?”
“No reason,” I say quickly. “It’s just, if you were getting a fake ID, I would have thought you might go for something a little younger. Pat says you only need to be eighteen to become a dive master.”
“I needed to be eighteen when I was fifteen,” he says in a low voice. “I got the fake ID when my mom kicked me out. So now that I’m seventeen, I’m twenty. You get it?”
“I think so,” I say. “So you’ve been on your own for two years?”
He grunts, which I take to mean yes.
“I’m really sorry, man,” I say and know exactly how meaningless that sounds because people keep saying it to me.
“It’s probably for the best,” he says wearily. “My mom went through a lot of boyfriends after my dad left, but they all had one thing in common. They liked to hit. The first time I hit back, she kicked me out, but I was pretty much ready to leave by then anyway. Are your parents still together?”
“That’s one way of putting it,” I say. “Mom’s threatened to leave a couple of times but she never does. Sometimes she gets worked up and says Dad’s ruined her life, but only when she’s really wasted.”
“Your mom gets wasted?” Zach sounds way more disapproving than I would have expected for a guy who considers beer one of the basic food groups.
“My parents were our age when Mom got pregnant. They weren’t even dating. Dad was taking photos of my mom forthe school paper. She was head cheerleader, and he had this huge nerdy crush on her. I think they only hooked up the one time, but they hit the jackpot. Pat says Mom wishes she’d never had us. There may be some truth to that but it’s not that simple. My mom loves us.
“I don’t think anyone is thrilled to have a baby when
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