Free Dan Versus Nature by Don Calame Page B

closed. Doing my best to look terrified.
    To my right, I hear my baby crying. Louder. And louder.
    I open one eye and see Hank frantically jiggling and patting the weeping doll.
    Hank looks at me with a pained expression. “He’s not wet. And you just fed him. I don’t know what he wants.”
    And just like that, Robbie blows his baby brack all over Hank’s shoulder, the snotty, sepia spew oozing down his back.
    “Lovely,” Hank says, cringing.
    I reach my hands out. “Here, I’ll take him.”
    “Sure,” Hank says, looking into the infant’s suddenly silent, sick-smeared face. “After I take the barf shower and get him all settled down.”
    In response, Baby Robbie shoots another powerful geyser of hurl all over the front of Hank’s shirt.
    “Jesus.” Hank holds the baby out like it’s radioactive. “It’s like this thing’s possessed or something.”
    The lady in the powder-blue jumpsuit sitting next to Hank looks even more horrified than he does. She hugs the window, trying to avoid any collateral damage.
    Charlie’s got his camera out, snapping a series of action shots, the flash popping over and over again. “This is exactly why Ms. Drizzler wants us to do this exercise,” he says. “To show us just how difficult it is to be a parent.”
    Hank pulls a face. “Yeah. I can see how it would be an effective mode of birth control. Here. I’ve done my tour of duty for the day.” He hands the baby off to me, then removes the barf bag from his seat-back pocket and uses it to wipe the brown sludge from his doused shirt. “At least it’s a short flight.”
    Yes, but it’s going to be a long week, Hank.
    A very long week.

When we arrive at carousel number three, everyone from our flight is greeted by someone — with hugs, kisses, and whoops of delight.
    We, however, are met by no one. Our representatives from My Woodland Trek Adventures — the grinning, chapeaued, and bevested greeters from the website — are missing in action. According to the description, they were meant to meet us “with snacks and smiles” before dumping us off at some lake where our “beautifully restored” bush plane is awaiting our arrival.
    “They’ll be here,” Hank says, reading my mind. He flips his wrist to check his mega-watch. “Maybe they got caught in traffic.”
    “Or were killed in a fifty-car pileup,” Charlie offers as he removes his surgical mask and gloves.
    “Right,” Hank says. “Though, unlikely.”
    “Not as unlikely as you’d think,” Charlie corrects. “There were nearly six million car accidents last year in the United States alone. That’s one every five seconds.”
    “I’m sure our people are fine.”
    “And I was sure my parents would be fine,” Charlie says matter-of-factly, “when they drove off for their anniversary dinner. But forty thousand people die in the United States from automobile accidents every year. That’s over a hundred people a day. One every fifteen minutes. It’s almost like a plane crash every twenty-four hours. Ponder that a moment. If a plane crashed every single day, do you think anyone would want to fly ever again? And yet we get into these rolling death machines willy-nilly. Even if our hosts
do
arrive, it’s entirely possible we’ll be killed on the drive to our next destination. It might actually be better if they
don’t
show up.”
    Hank’s eyebrows are squished together. “Wait, what was that about your parents?”
    “Charlie’s parents died in a car crash,” I say, feigning impatience. “Five years ago. I told you that.”
    “What? No. I don’t . . . think so.” Hank swallows. “Jesus, Charlie. I’m so sorry.” He looks at me. “I really don’t think you ever said anything about that —”
    “Yes, I did,” I lie. “When I asked you if Charlie could come on the trip, I said it would be really good for him to be around a father figure, since Mom’s been his only real parental influence for the last five years. Well, and his