Page 121 of The Deepest Lake

“He took off before they could. Now they’re looking for him.”

She’s still nodding, puzzling over her actions, so I mirror. I nod. I purse my lips—stoic and determined. It’s the most sensible thing in the world. Of course, she would falsely accuse him, her own quasi–foster child. Given her relationship with Molina and the local police, Mauricio would have to run far. And he would have, except that he was looking for me. “You’ve done the best you could, Eva. Mauricio was a problem.”

“Before he left, he confronted me, Jules. He must have been watching Eduardo, or me, wondering why we kept driving this way. He doesn’t understand what we’re trying to accomplish here. He just wanted to ruin everything.” Eva stands up suddenly, like she just remembered something. “I need to get back to the house. I have to meet someone.”

“We’ll go together.”

“No,” she jabs a hand against my chest, pushing me back on the bed. I’m surprised, as always, by her physical strength. And even more surprised at my weakness.

Only when I’m sure she’s gone do I empty the wash bucket onto the floor and turn it upside down on the bed, then clamber on top, favoring my strong leg as I reach for the roof hole. It’s about as round as one of those manhole covers you see on a city street. The problem won’t be squeezing through—only reaching it.

But I’m barely on top of the bucket when it topples over, dented. I roll to one side, stifling a shriek, the pain in my shin so bad I nearly black out. I need to be more careful. I can’t get so hurt in the process that I won’t be able to manage the walk down the hillside and along the road to Casa Eva.

The sounds of moaning coming from outside have stopped. The silence is even worse.

I push the dent out of the bucket. I remove the thin mattress from the wooden platform bed—something I should have done in the first place, to make a more stable foundation. I try again: no luck. I remember the tumble I took while rock climbing in Costa Rica—and how I gave up after that one try. I think of all the times my mom told friends how active I was, believing my stories, the occasional photo of me on some ridgeline: an easy illusion, masking the fact that I don’t like heights, just as I don’t like water or any kind of pain.

I consider the chair in the corner. Could I stand on it, inside? But the roof is too high up—at least two feet higher than my highest reach, even standing on the tippy chair.

The whole time, the room grows warmer, and the smell of smoke wafts through the hole and fills my lungs, making them itch. The fires are closer than they’ve ever been. Even if that brings potential rescuers closer, it still can’t be good.

I study the roof hole again. There must be a trick to this. Brains, not brawn.

I whack the broom against the back of the chair until it splinters. Now I have two pieces of stick, each jagged on one end. I retrieve the clothesline from where I’ve been keeping it under my pillow. I tie one end around the shorter broken stick, just a little longer than the length of my lower arm, from elbow to fingertips.

I aim the short stick like a javelin through the roof hole. Over and over, I use the attached clothesline to pull it back. Over and over, the entire stick-and-line contraption comes clattering toward me. Once it even knocks me in the head.

I try to pretend this is only a game—or like fishing, a pastime I always hated. I think of my father, taking me out once, on Lake Michigan. I think of my mom, the next weekend, taking me for a bike ride along the lake. It’s okay. Not all of us have to like boats. The water is pretty enough—at a distance. That’s just how you and I are. We’re not lake people.

The lake. Barbara.

The terrifying image of her coming at me makes me clutch the stick harder, ignoring the splinters that have become embedded in my hand. I channel my frustration and send the short javelin toward the open circle of sky again.

Another javelin toss. Another chin-grazing clatter as the stick and line falls back in my face.

Then finally, on what must be the twentieth try, the stick rotates just right and it catches, horizontally, on the outer edge of the roof hole. I hold my breath. I give the clothesline a light tug. Then a harder one. The broomstick isn’t budging. I look around the room one last time. It isn’t easy to climb a slippery clothesline, but I only need to pull myself up a few more feet.

I try and fail, my arms too weak, the clothesline too slippery.

I make a final adjustment. I tie the bottom of the clothesline in a noose-like circle, even with my chest. I grab high, I kick, I place the foot of my good leg in that loop, I use it as a step, I push with all my might until I feel the breeze on my face—I’m through the hole, I’m on the roof and looking down.

I slide down the side of the temazcal roof and make the final awkward leap to the ground, rolling onto my right side as I land, hip absorbing the impact. Wind knocked out of me, it takes a moment to orient myself and catch my breath. I’m not quite ready to try standing.

Mauricio is seated, legs out and eyes closed, head lolled to one side, next to the closed door of an old hippie school bus, the visual centerpiece at the middle of a half dozen abandoned temazcal huts and a few yurts.

“Mauricio!”

I crawl forward and press two fingers to his neck. He coughs and lifts his head before I can get a pulse. His hair is black, matted with blood. One eye remains closed even as he struggles to squint at me with the other.

I’m afraid to touch him, to hurt him. “I’ll get help. I thought you were . . .”

But now I can see the track, from the front of the hut to the door of the school bus. The ground has been swept by his agonizing crawl. There are dark marks, too, left by his bloody handprints.

“I’m going to get help,” I reassure him, looking around for a broken stick I can lean on. Because of the strong winds, there are many. “We need to find you some shelter.”

He needs protection from dangerous people, from sun, from the fire if it advances. I can’t see any flames, only thick brown smoke severing the nearby mountaintops. I can’t tell if the wind is blowing the fire toward us or away, only that the hot, acrid gusts are growing stronger.

I try to lift Mauricio, but I can’t do it alone.

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