Page 20 of One Step Too Far

“Field first aid. Perfect for stopping heavy bleeding. Press against the wound, secure in place with bandages. Tampons work, too.”

I rub the relatively new scar on my shoulder absently, then start picking up each item and reloading them into my pack.

On the other side of the room, Luciana does the same. I notice she rolls each item of clothing, allowing her to cram more in. I follow her example and this time manage to zip the pack closed when I’m done.

I heft it up. The weight is real, but better than Josh’s original load.

I can do this, I tell myself. Butane lighters, wicking fabrics, rule of threes. Nothing here I can’t handle.

Then I bolt into the bathroom so Luciana can’t see the panic on my face.

—

Ten thirty. Lights out. Luciana and Daisy already sound asleep in one bed. Myself, totally awake in the other.

Daisy snores. A slight woofing exhale. It’s rhythmic and soothing. I try to focus on that. Mostly, I wonder what would happen if I called Lotham right now. Two-hour time difference, making it after midnight in Boston.

He’s probably asleep. Or working a major case. Either way, would he take my call? The number of times I’ve flipped open my cheap Tracfone, finger hovering over the buttons. Then closed the phone. Put it away.

The number of times I have thought of him, and forced myself to move on.

Now I order myself to let go. Be in this moment. Honor Timothy O’Day and the task I have undertaken. Sleep. Tomorrow will be hard enough.

But I don’t drift off.

I remain wide-awake, staring up at the ceiling, wanting things I can’t have. Missing a man I chose to leave behind.

Eventually I roll onto my side. I picture Patrice O’Day, waiting for her son to come home. I imagine the lines easing in her face when her husband finally returns with their son’s body. I visualize the bachelor party friends sagging in collective relief and setting down the weight of their guilt.

A loved one recovered. A mission accomplished.

It will be good, I tell myself. It will be enough.

And that lie gets me through to morning.

CHAPTER 7

No one speaks when the alarm shrieks morning wake-up. Luciana rolls out of bed the second it sounds and is on her feet, pulling on clothes, tending to Daisy. I follow in a fog of sleep deprivation. In my world, five a.m. is for going to bed, not getting get out of it.

No small talk, no breakfast. Just get dressed, gather up personal possessions, and move. Then we are outside, where two white-paneled vans are idling and Nemeth is standing in the middle of the parking lot like an air traffic controller, motioning half of us here, half of us there. I end up in the same vehicle as Luciana, Daisy, Bob, and Nemeth. Martin and his son’s friends ride in the other.

Separate, I think again, as the sun just starts to break over the horizon. Tim’s college friends and his father equal one pod; we are another. I should follow that thought, but the hour is too early, my mind too fuzzy. I lean my head against the cold side window and close my eyes instead.

Then, just like that, the van stops and the door slides open. Nemeth steps out.

“Leave your extra luggage in the van. Marge will keep it safe for the rest of the week.”

Which is when I realize our older female driver in full camo regalia is also the diner owner. Nemeth places a light hand on her shoulder, which would seem collegial for a normal person, but I’m guessing in Nemeth’s understated world is a public declaration of intimacy. Marge doesn’t even look at him but regards us with a cool, assessing stare.

I’m pretty sure they’re soul mates. On the other hand, dear God, where is the coffee?

Bob is moving. Luciana and Daisy, too. They seem to know what they’re doing, so I follow their lead, stepping out of the van, dumping my gear on the ground, then, belatedly, digging out the insect repellent. The others are spraying it on heavily. Even Daisy is subject to some minty-smelling, canine-friendly mosquito napalm. Once that’s completed, everyone pulls on their packs. Again, Daisy fits right in, adorned in a red vest with bulging pouches and a single water bottle.

If a dog can do this, I tell myself, then I can, too.

Of course, the dog has had way more training.

Marge nods once at Nemeth. Some kind of all-set signal. I’m still trying to figure out how she got all of her bouffant curls tucked under her khaki-green hat, when he nods back, and that is apparently that. No lingering kiss as they part for the next week, not even a peck on the cheek. She heads back to the van; he turns toward us.

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