Page 10 of Hunter

A few hours ago he asked me: “Hey, cuz, what rhymes with ‘nice tits’?”

I gave him some ideas as a joke, and the fact that he tried to work “lice kits” and “mice clits” into his song has me, frankly, worried.

And that scenery I’d hoped for, which—for some reason I can’t explain—looked a lot more likeThelma and Louise’s southwest than Beto’s and my northwest, is nothing to write home about. We’ve been on BC-1 since we crossed the border into Canada, and it’s been one sleepy town after another on this interminable two-lane highway.

Last night, we got a motel room in Clinton, at a place that made “lice kits” seem less like a shitty song lyric and more like a smart prophylactic. Tonight, we’re stopping in Vanderhoof, whose claim to fame is being the geographical center of British Columbia. And that’s every bit as exciting as it sounds.

When we get to town, I drive around looking for a motel that couldn’t double as the motor inn fromPsycho.(Harder than it sounds.)Because the North Land Motel is rated #1 on Tripadvisor, I pull into the parking lot and hope for the best. When we get to our room, I’m pleased to discover that while it isn’t fancy, it appears to be clean. Either that or someone just cleaned up a murder scene because the bathroom reeks of bleach.

As we get our suitcases out of the trunk, I remind Beto that because I’ve driven ten hours to his four, he gets to drive all five hours to Prince Rupert tomorrow. That’s where we’ll catch the ferry to Ketchikan.

“But, bruh!” he groans, twisting his handsome face into a beleaguered grimace worthy of Paul Rudd’s performance inWet Hot American Summer. “I need time and space to make my tunes. I can’t be your chauffeur!”

“I’m not your bro,” I snap. “And it’s your turn to drive.”

He opens the door to the back seat and reaches for his guitar.

“Donotbring that into the room,” I say. “I’ve had enoughmusicfor today, Beto.”

“Enough?But I’m an artist, yo.”

I glance at the motel pool, located adjacent to the parking lot. With a layer of dead leaves and an inch of muddy water on the bottom, it’s a sad sight, but I can’t bear another moment of Beto’s songwriting.

“Go be an artist by the pool.”

“That pool is not inspiring, bruh.”

“Then get your own room,bro.” I say, crossing my arms over my chest. “Ipaid for this one. My room, my rules.”

Under his breath, he calls me abruja, which means ‘witch’ in Spanish, then throws his suitcase back in the car, grabs his jacket, and mumbles something about how glad he is that the drinking age in Canada is nineteen. I watch him stride across the parking lot toward a local bar, then walk up the outdoor stairs to our second-floor motel room.

I close the door, lie back on one of the two beds, and stare up at a water stain on the ceiling. Blessed silence.Gracias a Dios.

“What a friggin’ disaster.” I sigh, rubbing my tired eyes with the heel of my hand.

Even though Beto and I are cousins—well, first cousins once removed, to be precise—I don’t actually know him that well. He’s my cousin Miguel’s oldest son and seven years younger than me. When he was born, I was in elementary school. When he was in elementary school, I was driving. When he was in middle school, I was in college. We’re from a gigantic family of Mexican Americans whose great-grandparents emigrated from Guadalajara to Washington State via California back in the 1950s. And yes, we see each other regularly at BBQs and anniversary parties, baptisms and weddings, but I’m from a different generation of cousins than Beto is. We’re related, but not close.

That said, when Miguel—Beto’s original teammate and my favorite cousin—was diagnosed with heart problems after Christmas and had to drop out ofThe Astonishing Race, I couldn’t say no to taking his place. I’m young-ish and unmarried. And everyone in our family knows that as a second-grade teacher, I have my summers free.

Plus, I thought it might be fun…and potentially lucrative.

Beto’s young, big and strong, and he’s worked two seasons on Alaskan crab boats. I’m in good shape, but more importantly,I’m clever and competitive. With his strength and my smarts, I thought we might have a chance to win the million.

When I suggested we drive to Ketchikan, I was hoping we’d get to know each other better and build a strong camaraderie. I pictured us using the time to find common ground and form ourselves into a strong and competitive team. Instead, we’re annoying the snot out of each other, and it’s only day two. How the hell are we going to spend the next three weeks together completing difficult challenges if we can’t even handle a simple road trip?

Buzz, buzz.

Buzz, buzz.

I jump up and grab my phone from the motel room bureau, feeling my lips slide into a big smile. McKenna’s face lights up my screen.McKenna Cabot Stewart.My best friend in the whole world.

“Ken!”

“Iz!”

“Oh my god, I’m so glad to hear your voice!”

“Are you here? In Alaska?”

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