Page 26 of One Step Too Far

We trudge on.

—

By the time we reach the top of the endless incline, we have all retreated someplace deep inside ourselves. My mind is a carousel of discordant memories.

Myself dancing under hot lights, whirling, whirling, whirling, till the crowded bar was nothing but a blur of neon and a cacophony of wild laughter but I didn’t care because this wasn’t my body and this wasn’t my life and I’d never have to feel any pain as long as I kept spinning.

First time I woke up in a pool of vomit and didn’t remember how I got there.

First time I woke up in someone else’s bed and didn’t know how I got there.

First time I woke up in county lockup and recalled exactly how I got there but still wanted nothing more than another drink.

My twelve-year-old friend’s dog Shaggy, a big, lovable mutt who roamed the neighborhood with his wagging tail and goofy grin, until one day there was a squeal of tires followed by a terrible thump and my father told me not to look outside. I went to my room and tucked myself way back inside my closet because I didn’t want to know. Later, Sophie came over and I snuck us a six-pack of beers from the fridge. We drank one after another, never talking, and my father had to know what we’d done—two semiconscious twelve-year-old girls staring at him blurrily from my bedroom floor—but he didn’t say a word. And I loved him for that.

The first time I saw Paul.

The last, last time I took a drink.

The sound of Detective Lotham’s heartbeat, solid and steady, then increasingly rapid as I pressed myself against him just last year, after my first successfully completed case in a place that came as close to any as feeling like home.

I’m not sure why I’m recalling these particular memories. The good, the sad, the reverent, the humbling. I just know I have to focus on anything other than the agony that is my body.

By the time we arrive, the others have taken up position before a wide, rushing stream, packs off, bodies sprawled. Nemeth and Martin look like their usual stern selves. Like the rest of us, their shirts are soaked with sweat, hair plastered to their scalps. But unlike, say, Scott and Neil, who have collapsed on the ground and obviously plan on never getting up again, Nemeth and Marty look ready for another eighteen miles. Luciana is somewhere in the middle, withdrawn, marshaling her resources. Daisy lounges in the dirt at her feet. The SAR dog looks up at our approach, thumps her tail in greeting, makes no attempt to rise. I understand completely.

The terrain has opened up dramatically. A huge expanse of wild grass, beaten golden brown by the sun this late in the summer, and dotted with white, yellow, and purple wildflowers. The air is crisper at this altitude, limned with the promise of glacier peaks and even the first hint of winter. All around us sweep the green, blue, and brown ridgelines of rolling mountains, some modestly short, some staggeringly tall.

It is all heart-stoppingly beautiful. The kind of views that drew pioneers far from the security of the known into the wild promise of the unknown. I would’ve made an excellent explorer, assuming I didn’t drop dead of exhaustion first.

It takes me a few tries to unclip the buckles around my chest and waist. My fingers are clumsy and swollen. I try to shake off my pack and nearly hiss from the pain in my shoulders. I bite it back quickly, not wanting to give away just how much I hurt.

To judge by the look on Nemeth’s face, he’s not fooled for a second. Beside me, Miggy has finally wrestled his bag to the ground. Without another word, he crosses to the river’s edge, drops to his knees, and plunges his head straight in.

It gives me the incentive to ditch my gear and follow suit as fast as I possibly can.

The water is a total shock. Not just cold, but cold. It’s bracing and brain numbing, perfectly refreshing and excruciatingly painful. I want to jerk away and gulp down entire mouthfuls. I hold steady, letting the water flow over my face and neck till I feel on the verge of an ice cream headache.

When I sit up and toss back my head, my long wet ponytail slaps between my shoulder blades and sends a fresh torrent of icy chills shivering down my overheated torso. It’s about as close to orgasm as I’ve ever come with an audience.

Beside me, Miggy removes the blue bandana from around his neck, dips it in the water, then uses it to scrub at his face, neck, bare arms. After a final dunking, he ties the dripping cloth around the bronze column of his throat.

Sheer longing must be stamped in my face, because next thing I know, Bob is kneeling beside me. “Want it?” Orange bandana still folded into a fresh, clean square.

“Last time I wanted something that bad, it was a bottle of rotgut vodka.”

Bob grins. “Take it, it’s yours.”

I copy Miggy’s technique down to the last detail. I might be stupid, but at least I’m a fast learner.

“Water?” Bob asks me.

“You want some?”

“No. How much do you have left? This is a good place to refill.”

I feel like I should know what he’s saying, but my physical exhaustion has impaired my ability to understand the English language.

Bob dangles two giant water jugs from their straps. Next, he produces what looks like an elongated plastic pop top, attached to an empty bladder. The water filtration system. I have a similar one in my pack.

---