The taffy-candy walls also make me feel disoriented. How can we be in a canyon—or heading for a canyon—when we’ve been walking either level or uphill all morning?
I make the mistake of asking Michelle, “Aren’t canyons supposed to be down?” It sounds stupid the minute it’s out of my mouth, so I say, “Never mind.”
“No, you’re right,” she says. “We think of canyons as being down. Most people go to the rim of, say, the Grand Canyon and look in. But if you were to follow the Colorado River instead of driving to the rim, you would enter the Grand Canyon from the bottom. That’s just like out here, but on a bigger scale. The Colorado River cut the Grand Canyon into the earth like floodwaters cut into these sandstone canyons.”
Mia glances at Michelle, then grins at me. “I’m gonna picture us rafting down a river of daisies.”
I try to go with that image, but there’s noise in my head.
Noise telling me that we’re walking upstream, not down.
Noise telling me there’s no such thing as a river of daisies.
Besides, even I know these aren’t daisies. They’re low to the ground. And the petals look rough, not smooth. The plants crunch underfoot but seem to spring back, undefeated. Like it’s going to take more than being walked on to bring them down.
From up front, someone starts whistling “Follow the Yellow Brick Road” from The Wizard of Oz. It’s the Falcon, Felicia. Then the two Elks join in. Behind us, Michelle laughs, then whistles along.
I feel like a dorky dwarf from Snow White, caught in a Wicked Witch nightmare.
“Hey!” Shalayne calls. “It was fields of poppies in The Wizard of Oz.” She shifts her hold on the tarp pole. It’s an angry move that throws the rest of us off balance. “They were red,” she shouts. “And they put Dorothy to sleep!”
“But the Yellow Brick Road was yellow!” Brooke-the-Elk singsongs back.
“But the road wasn’t flowers!” Shalayne shouts. “And we’re not headed for Oz! We’re in the freakin’ desert heading for more freakin’ desert, and we haven’t stopped walking in fifty hours! I need to rest!”
“It’s the flowers,” Brooke calls. “They’re making you sleeeeeepy.”
“No,” Shalayne shouts, “you’re making me mad. If you had to haul a stretcher like we do, you’d be hungry and tired too!”
“Hey, I paid my dues,” Brooke calls.
I am so stunned and happy that someone else is miserable and up for a fight that I keep my mouth shut. The Yellow Brick Road spat has ground us all to a halt again, and from the front end of the stretcher, Hannah looks back at us. She seems exhausted, but more than that, she seems…panicked?
Michelle must see it too, because she breaks protocol by talking about the future and calls, “On the other side of that canyon is our resupply. We’re almost there. You can make it, girls.”
I’ve heard the Grizzlies talking enough to know that “resupply” happens about once a week and means fresh water, food, and letters from home. I know exactly how I feel about fresh water and food, but letters from home?
A knot forms in my stomach just thinking about it.
“Let’s giddyup!” Mia calls, and we start to move, but three steps forward Jude—who hasn’t said a single word the whole day—goes down with a thump and a clang and a groan, right in front of us.
Ahead of us porters, Dvorka and the others keep hiking.
“Hey!” Shalayne screams at them. “Are you totally oblivious?”
Michelle’s already up at Jude, taking his pulse, while the four of us Coyotes put the stretcher down and crowd in.
“Get me some water,” Michelle says, and Mia’s handing hers over before the words are even out. Michelle tries to sit Jude up a little, but he’s not taking water. “Get his pack off,” she commands, and Hannah and I dump our own packs and jump in to help.
Dvorka has rushed back and is squatting beside Michelle, asking, “Heatstroke?”
“He just went down,” Michelle says, her voice low, guarded.
“His vitals okay?”
Michelle nods as Hannah and I peel off Jude’s pack; then she tries again to get him to drink water.
Everyone’s circled around now, watching. “Maybe it is the flowers,” Hannah whispers to me.
I start to give her a look like You nuts? but stop when I see her ocean eyes are swimming.
“He’ll be fine,” I whisper.
But her eyes aren’t drying up, they’re flooding.
“What’s wrong?” I ask. “Why are you freaking out?”
“Poppies,” she whispers.
“Poppies?”
She flings tears away. “I thought I was better.”
I’m not following. “Better?”
“Just the connection sends me back.”
I’m still not following. “What connection?”
“Poppies.” She slides a desperate look my way. “You never did H?”
My eyes go wide and my heart catches. The Wizard of Oz…the Deadly Poppy Field…I’d never even thought about why the poppy fields were deadly, but now I get it. Opium. Heroin. It comes from poppies.
When I first heard Nico talk about “H,” I was clueless. He and Biggy were talking in code. It took me about two weeks to break that code, and by then I was in too deep to have second thoughts.
“Did you?” Hannah whispers, demanding an answer.
I shake my head, and the truth is I haven’t done heroin.
What I have done, though, is deliver it.
“Then forget it,” she says. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“But these flowers are not poppies!” I whisper. “They’re gnarly desert daisies. And they’re not even why Jude passed out. He’s got heatstroke.”
“I know,” she whispers, but her chin’s quivering and her ocean eyes are filling up again. “I think about it every day. I fight it every day. I thought I was winning, but this…” Her voice fades into sobs.
I still don’t really understand why a field of yellow flowers is making her lose it. What I do get, though, is that she’s hurting. Hurting bad. “Hey,” I whisper, and before I can even think about what I’m doing, I scoop her into a hug and hold on tight as a tidal wave floods my shoulder.
The hike out of the flower field and through the taffy canyon is a solemn march. Jude’s awake, but shaky and nauseous. Michelle’s managed to get water and Gatorade into him and sponged him down to cool him off. We’ve been moving through shade wherever we can, but the sun’s almost straight overhead, so there hasn’t been much of it.
The two Elks are toting Jude’s pack on one of the snow discs, while Dvorka and Felicia-the-Falcon try to keep Jude on his feet and moving forward. Michelle’s put a buffer of distance behind us, but I can still hear bits of what she’s saying on the walkie-talkie. Basically, Jude’s going home.
“Wish I’d thought of that,” Mia says in my direction. A few steps later, she mutters, “But maybe I’m glad I didn’t.”
“You serious?” I ask.
She shrugs with her free arm. “It’s weird. This is starting to feel normal.”
“And that’s a good thing?”
She’s quiet for a long stretch, but I can see her thinking. Finally she says, “I like how I feel strong now. All I ever felt before was angry.” She gives me a smirk. “I used to think it was the same thing, but it’s not.”
I’m quiet for a long stretch after that, doing my own thinking. I start out with my sights on the truth in what she’s said, but as I move toward it, I spin out remembering all the ways I hate Anabella for being such a selfish narc, and Mom for always taking her side, and Dad for ignoring everything, and Meadow for betraying me.
I arrive, instead, at angry, and yes, I feel strong.
Vengeful.
Unstoppable.
“Quit pushing!” Hannah calls from in front of me.
I snap out of my thoughts and ease up. Who says anger isn’t strength?
Then Dvorka cries, “There it is!” like we
’ve arrived in Oz. She’s pointing to the same truck that dropped me off…how many days ago? According to the hash marks on my pants, it’s been only seven, but it feels like a month.
Two men are hurrying toward us. One’s John, the other’s Mr. Gorgeous.
Both Elks race ahead, the snow disc bouncing up and down between them. “Silver Hawk!” Brooke squeals.
“He’s mine!” Kelsey cries.
I look at Mia. “Silver Hawk?”
“You didn’t meet him on the drive in?”
“Nobody told me his name.”
“Well, now you know it.”
“It’s Silver Hawk? Seriously?”
“That’s how he introduced himself. He’s Mokov’s grandson.” A helpless sigh escapes her. “His eyes give me chills.”
I decide we’re all idiots, and while the counselors deal with Jude and have a hush-hush confab, I work at ignoring Mr. Gorgeous Silver Hawk instead of fawning over him like the rest of the girls.
It doesn’t help that he’s dispensing cups of cool water from a big plastic drum in the bed of the truck. Or that he’s handing out deli sandwiches. Or that he says, “Looking good,” when he hands me mine.
“Liar,” I say back, but I can’t help smiling.
Resupply means we each get our own personal stash of food, issued in ziplock bags. Dry stuff like granola, powdered milk, rice and beans, lentils, trail mix…stuff that we’re supposed to self-ration over the coming week. They also issue group food that the Elks are in charge of and will have to carry on a snow disc.
The Elks try to keep me from nosing in, but I manage to identify a sack of corn masa, powdered eggs, peanut butter, honest-to-God apples, cheese sticks, brown sugar, and potatoes.
Huge, whole potatoes.
But…how are we going to cook those? And why lug them anywhere when there’s the lightweight just-add-water freeze-dried kind out there? As much sense as it doesn’t make, I am excited to see real food.
Resupply also means refilling our personal canteens and, for me, getting one to replace the canteen Dax stole. I’m careful not to drink a single drop out of my new supply and instead ask Silver Hawk for cup refills out of the big drum until I can’t swallow another drop.
Silver Hawk also fills the group water dispensers. They’re clear and collapsible, and we’ve been carrying them empty on the tarp stretcher, but once they’re full, they get strapped onto a snow disc for Felicia-the-Falcon to tote along. Water’s heavy. Eight pounds a gallon, if I remember right. About time Coyotes weren’t doing all the work.
Through the resupply and lunch, Jude sits in the front seat of the truck looking miserable while the counselors rotate huddles. With each other, with their walkie-talkies, with Silver Hawk. There’s a lot of nodding and wrinkling of brows, but they’re all smiles when it’s time to head out. “Jude’s leaving the team,” Dvorka announces. “Let’s give him a fond Grizzlies farewell and get back at it. We have miles to go before we sleep.”
When a fond Grizzlies farewell turns out to be a lukewarm “See ya,” and “Take care,” I mutter, “I guess you guys didn’t like him much?”
I’m standing in a little pack with the other Coyotes. “He joined us the day before you did,” Mia says. “We barely know him.”
Hannah seems to be over her poppy meltdown. She smiles at me and says, “Yeah. We know you better than him, and you’ve been off limits for most of it.” She looks toward the truck. “I think he was dealing with his own stuff.”
Shalayne is in a way better mood now, too. Amazing what some food and rest will do. She says, “I guess some of us are just tougher than others.”
Mia gives her a playful shove. “Girl, you spent your first three days crying.”
“You cried your first three days?” I ask, pretending I didn’t.
Shalayne groans. “Am I ever gonna live that down?”
Mia zaps me with a wicked look. “Maybe we should bring up your first days?”
Mia and Shalayne tease, “Help meeeee!” and we all laugh, even me.
Then Shalayne sees Silver Hawk getting behind the wheel of the truck and cries, “Take me with you!”
“Or stay!” Hannah shouts. “Pleeeease?”
Silver Hawk flashes a smile and waves out the window. Then he’s off in a cloud of dust.
And, with a “Heave ho,” so are we.
According to my sky-dividing calculations, it’s somewhere between four and five o’clock when we finally stumble into camp. I’ve got blisters on my feet and my hands, and my back and shoulders are caked in salty sweat under my pack. I’m dying for shade. Everyone’s miserable, even our jailers.
“What a team,” John tries as we set down the tarp stretcher. His voice comes out flat. Exhausted. His man-bun is frayed and frizzed.
“You only hiked half,” Brooke-the-Elk grumbles.
“But I did about twenty miles yesterday, bringing in Dax,” he points out. “He didn’t exactly give up easily.”
I want to ask about Dax, but I notice the other Grizzlies scoping out the camp. I’m not sure how it works, but I don’t want to get stuck with the worst spot, so I do a quick gauge of the sun’s path. The campsite has scattered pinyons and junipers, with one area that would work as a little harbor of afternoon shade. I hurry over to it and dump my pack, claiming it.
“Hey!” Felicia says, looking at me like I’m sitting at a seniors-only table in the school cafeteria. Which seems to be how things play out here, with the Falcon and Elks acting like upper class to the Coyotes’ lower class.
Since Felicia’s like the senior in the group, she’s probably used to getting her way, but before she can actually complain, I call, “Over here!” to Hannah, who comes shuffling toward me, followed by Shalayne and Mia.
“Wait, what?” Felicia calls, looking to our jailers for help. “Aren’t we going in order?”
“You are really brave,” Hannah whispers.
“Are there rules?” I whisper back.
“Unspoken ones, yeah.”
John and the other counselors are watching, but they don’t interfere.
“Seriously?” Felicia asks them, and when they don’t make a move, she huddles with the Elks, looking over at us from time to time.
The Coyotes are acting nervous, twitching. I don’t want to give up the shade, but I also don’t want trouble. And even though there’s no way we can all string up tents in Shady Harbor, I call over, “We can all squeeze in!”
But the Falcon and Elks don’t want to hang out with a pack of Coyotes. They turn in a huff and pick spots on the other side of the camp area.
Everyone gets busy setting up their stuff. I really just want to roll out my pad, unstuff my sleeping bag, and collapse, but no one else is doing that. Plus, I know it’ll turn cold quick once the sun goes down, so I make myself get to work too. I’m still slow at putting up the tarp, but better than before. And this time I let Michelle teach me her “magic knot” to help tighten my tarp-tent cord. It makes things so much easier.
I’ve just started arranging stuff inside my tent when John begins barking out words like a roll call.
“Fire ring!”
Brooke shoots off, “Mine!”
“Firewood!”
“Mine!” Felicia shouts.
“Latrine!”
“Wren’s!” the Elks and Falcon cry together.
“What?” I ask, not knowing what’s going on.
John laughs and keeps going. “Ignition!”
“Mine!” Mia shouts.
“What are we doing?” I ask.
“Community chores,” Hannah explains, then calls out, “Latrine assist!”
John studies her and nods. “Fair enough. And very nice.”
“Terrain’s pretty rocky,” Dvorka agrees.
“Pantry!” John calls.
“Mine!” Shalayne and the other Elk, Kelsey, call at the same time.
John considers, then declares, “You’ll work together.”
This creates instant silence, b
roken by Michelle, who calls out, “And the field staff volunteers to make family dinner.”
A cheer goes up: “Yay!”
A few minutes later, Hannah pops her head inside my tent, collapsible shovel in hand. “Ready?”
I say yes, but it turns out that no, I’m not. It takes us over an hour to dig the latrine. By the time we’re done, I’ve got three new blisters and an attitude to match—I’m hot and hurting and ready to pop.
On our walk back to camp, I turn to Hannah and manage to scrape a thanks from deep inside the way I’m feeling. “I don’t know how I could have done that by myself.”
“It’s the pits, no kidding,” she says, and grins.
I groan, then go with the stupid pun thing. “You better wipe that look off your face.”
“Urine for it now!”
I stop walking. “Okay, that was just bad.”
Her nose twitches in the air, and at first I think she’s going to make another stupid joke, but then I smell it, too.
“Wow!” I gasp, and the pit-digging torture instantly vanishes from my mind. “Is that…onions?”
“And…hamburger?”
Our noses pull us along to camp, where we find a fire ring that already looks like it’s been there a week. The jailers’ tents are up, the fire is blazing, and John is just putting the lid on the big black kettle the Elks lugged into camp on a snow disc. “That smells so good!” Hannah cries.
“What is it?” I ask, my mouth watering.
Dvorka arranges ashy-looking sticks from the fire around the kettle. “Peacekeeper pie,” she says, putting more chunks of smoldering wood on top of the lid.
“When will it be done?” Hannah asks, her words strung together by a thread of hope.
Dvorka looks around at all of us. Every single Grizzly Girl is standing nearby, drooling. “It’ll be about half an hour,” she says. “Enough time for you to wash up.”
“Wash up?” I look at Hannah. “With what?”