Page 17 of Grave Matter

“Even with your weekly counseling?” I remark.

“I’m a psychologist, not a magician,” he says. “Some minds are stronger than others. There is no shame in that.”

“And my mind?” I can’t help but ask. “Do you think it’s strong enough?”

He studies me for a moment, something warm, close to affection, coming through his cold exterior. “I think that remainsto be seen. But if I had to take a gander already, I would say yes. Shall we?”

Kincaid gestures to the door, and I follow him as he opens it for me. We step out into the late-morning fog.

“I’ll see you later, Sydney Denik,” he says to me with a faint smile before he disappears into the mist.

CHAPTER 7

After lunch,a hearty vegetarian stew with beans and squash that I picked at, my appetite still not returning, the cohort split into two. Justin, Noor, sea-urchin-loving Albert, and the redhead Christina from Chicago went to the floating dock to do work with Dr. Hernandez while the rest of us were instructed to meet Nick by the totem pole.

The conversation with Kincaid is still on my mind as Nick starts distributing packs and foraging supplies to each of us. I really need to keep myself in check. Kincaid said he wasn’t spying on me, and I believe him, but it’s a worrying sign that I jumped to that conclusion. I don’t know what it is about him, why he’s already getting under my skin, but I’m going to blame it on a sex dream.

I’ve made mistakes before that have cost me dearly, and even though my sexual appetite can be extreme at times, my impulsivity can be restrained. Lusting after your professor is fine—as long as no line is ever crossed, and as long as it stays hidden away, siphoned into a harmless crush. Which means I need to stop being so…I don’t know. I’m not flirting with him, not really,but I’m more comfortable with him than I ought to be. It needs to stop before I become too fixated and make bad decisions.

We head out along the logging road that runs behind the lodge. Nick tells us that it’s rarely used these days since most areas around us were classified as protected land, though there is a logging camp about fifteen kilometers down the road.

“Camp number nine are our closest neighbors,” he says as he walks ahead of us, a gnarled walking stick in hand. “If there’s ever an emergency of some sort, which of course there won’t be, just head up this road. It’s tough going, but you’ll eventually reach them. There’s also the Checleset reservation to the south of us, bordering the entrance to the Brooks Peninsula, but it’s boat access only, and you’d need permission first.”

If it was an emergency, I’m sure they would be willing to help, permission or not, I think. I have to wonder what kind of emergencies happen at the lodge, but I don’t want to bog down the atmosphere with that question.

The fog seems to lift as we walk along, the sun nearly breaking through the tops of the trees, and everyone is in good spirits, the bear bells attached to our packs filling the air with soft jingling. At Nick’s prodding, I take out a compass from my pack and watch it move as we turn northeast, the land flatter to our right and a sharp mountain rising from our left where the Sitka spruce seem to reach into the sky. Ravens call out from the branches, occasionally swooping overhead, while the mournful call of the varied thrush comes from the bushes. I breathe in deeply, the scent of pine and fresh soil.

Clayton ends up walking right behind me, though he’s thankfully in conversation with a black guy from London named Patrick.

“I’m just worried my brother will be drafted,” Clayton says to Patrick. “War didn’t seem a possibility when he joined the military.”

I frown at that, wondering what war he could be talking about, when Patrick goes, “Shhhhhh.”

Now I have to glance behind me. Patrick looks uneasy, quickly busying himself with the straps on his pack while Clayton glares at me.

“What are you looking at, princess?” he says. “Not used to walking places?”

“I was just curious what war your brother is being drafted into,” I tell him.

He just stares at me for a moment, eyes boring into mine. “There’s some skirmish in the Balkans,” he eventually says. “Let me guess, you don’t watch the news. Think you’re too smart or woke for it or something.”

“Clayton!” Nick barks at him from the front. “Enough.”

Before I can turn back around, I trip over a rock, but Munawar’s hand shoots out and grabs my arm, steadying me.

“Thanks,” I tell him, giving him a flustered smile.

Munawar nods as he lets go. “I don’t watch the news much either,” he admits, his eyes kind. “Too much drama.”

“Yeah, well, I used to,” I tell him. “But I get so distracted it steals my focus, and I usually end up depressed.”

“Luckily, we won’t get any while we’re here,” Lauren notes. “I think we’ll be happier for it. Though I wish I could keep up with the Kardashians.”

“Do people still watch that show?”

She laughs. “You’d be surprised.”

We walk for a little while longer, the logging road becoming overgrown with ferns and blooming pink fireweed in some places, before Nick leads us down a trail through the brush. Eventually, we come to a small clearing, the grass so rich and green it’s almost neon, a few alder trees bordering a dark pond peppered with lily pads.

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