Free Fire & Flood by Victoria Scott Page B

drink from the streams he stops at, and I sleep when he sleeps. Each morning, I wake up to the sound of him moving about. Though he’s quiet most of the day, in the morning, he’s louder than any alarm clock I’ve ever owned.
    For the most part, following him is working out all right. The problem is the guy hasn’t found any more flags, and I’m starting to wonder if maybe finding the first one was a fluke.
    Night falls quickly in the jungle, which isn’t good. I hate the night, the time when I feel utterly alone, even though Green Beret is only a few yards away. Plus, it gets cooler at night, and for some reason, my skin is doing something funky that worsens in the evening. It feels and looks thinner where the brown scrubs touch my body, and a pink rash covers my chest and back. It freaks me out to no end, but I can’t tell what the issue is. I think maybe I’m allergic to walking this much.
    I watch the guy find a place to rest. Last night, he slept in the trees, which I find wildly disturbing. But tonight, he pulls up plants by the fistful and lays bark and twigs onto the ground he cleared. Then he covers that with dead leaves. Finally, after he’s been working and inspecting the site for several minutes, he sitsdown. The lion pads toward him and leans back on his haunches. The guy rubs the lion under his chin, and a warm, rich purr erupts from the animal’s throat. A small ache twists through my chest. I’d do almost anything for that kind of companionship right now.
    It fascinates me, watching this guy and his Pandora. I still haven’t gotten over the fact that we’re in this race and that we have these animals to help us through. Thinking about the other Contenders, I wonder if their Pandoras have hatched, too.
    Am I the only one left with an egg?
    I try not to think about it as I watch the guy move around, finding a comfortable position to sleep. He’s extremely tall — well over six feet — and it seems every inch of his frame is covered in muscle. I knew guys like him in school. The ones who spent every waking hour pumping iron so they could stare at their sweaty masses in the mirror. I do wonder about his disfigured ear, though, and the scar over his eye. And I wonder about other things, too: the way he circles his makeshift beds like the lion beside him, or the way he rubs his left elbow when he’s thinking. And, good Lord, how many times does one person need to crack his knuckles in a day? Only the knuckles over four fingers, though, never the thumb.
    Crack your damn thumb, I think every time he does it. You’re forgetting your thumb!
    Watching him has been my entertainment for over thirty-six hours, a distraction from a cruel realization — my Pandora may never hatch. At times, I imagine him seeing me in the distance and welcoming my company, but I know that won’t happen — not with this one.
    The dark, shadowed jungle of the day has morphed into the black hue of night, so I don’t see any harm in inching closer. Last night, I slept as far away as I could while still keeping him in myline of sight. Tonight, I can’t bear to be more than a few feet away. He may hear me, but with this cloak of darkness, he’ll never see me.
    Folding my arms around my knees, I close my eyes. Inside my head, I’m back home in Boston, sitting in front of the TV with a bowl of kettle corn. My dad is talking football with Cody, and my mom is harping on us to come to the table … and for me to lay off the popcorn before dinner. I picture us sitting down to my dad’s meat loaf, the kind with the red gravy. Cody will make a remark about Brad Carter sucking face with a new girl, and I’ll sock him in the arm. Mom will get mad. Dad will laugh.
    Before I can stop myself, I start to hum to Madox. It’s the tune to my mom’s bedside song — our sicky song. I hum for several seconds until I hear a cracking sound. When I open my eyes, I spot Green Beret staring in my direction.
    Crap!
    Oh well. It’s not like he