Free Three Weeks in December (9781609459024) by Audrey Schulman

new-looking rubber boots to pack them away in his knapsack. Then standing in his bare feet, he neatly folded his pants up to his knees.
    Max wondered how they would travel this last leg of the journey. From the map she’d looked at with her mom, she knew the research station was located high on the shoulder of these mountains, probably five miles and six thousand feet straight up. These mountains were supposed to be a major tourist destination, so she searched for a gondola or some all-terrain vehicles or at least a wide paved path. She could spot nothing along these lines.
    Whatever language these men spoke, it wasn’t French. Their words were all bounce and rounded vowels. When the last cigarette was smoked down to the filter, they turned and in a line, luggage swaying on their heads, walked into the jungle, heading up what she now saw was the narrowest of muddy trails.
    Mutara followed.
    Max stared. Roswell and Stevens hadn’t mentioned this part of the itinerary. The slope was steep. The porters strode onward, making their ascent look easy. They began to disappear into the foliage, the bags waving good-bye from above the bushes. She glanced again up at the distant mountains peaks and then, having no choice, followed.
    The mud on the path was slick. It felt as though it had been raining here continuously for weeks. Before she’d gone a hundred feet, she slipped and fell onto both knees and one hand. As with most aspies, physical agility was not one of her skills. At the best of times she walked flatfooted and unsteadiy. Right now, she hadn’t slept in thirty-nine hours and the tranquilizers she’d taken on the airplanes seemed to have puddled in her feet. She stood back up, wiping the mud off her pants as best she could—mostly smearing it around—and then continued to climb.
    Three times a week she jogged four miles, but only indoors on a track, an utterly flat surface. She enjoyed running round and round that perfect oval, keeping neatly between the lines. Years of this had helped her balance and stride appear slightly more natural.
    But this path was definitely not flat.
    Within the first half hour, she fell three more times and gave up trying to wipe herself off. Hoping her bare feet might get more traction, as it seemed to for the porters and Mutara, she pulled off her loafers and tied them to her knapsack.
    With her toes, she could find a bit more purchase, but she was having difficulty now catching her breath, her ribs heaving. The van had climbed up the mountains a few thousand feet before it got to the parking lot. The air was getting thinner. The path went on and on.
    Every half-mile or so Mutara waited for her, crouched on his heels at a turn in the path, smoking a cigarette. Perhaps he was embarrassed for her—huffing, smeared in mud, plodding up the path—for he looked at the jungle rather than her. She struggled on toward him, progress slow. Finally, the cigarette finished, he pressed it out in the mud, got to his feet and walked on. She was still 20 feet down the path. An awkward robot, her gears straining. She didn’t complain or ask him to slow down.
    Two hours into the climb, he waited at a turn in the path until she was close enough to hear his voice. Perhaps he’d gotten past his embarrassment for she could sense his head was pointed toward her, studying her.
    â€œDo you wish the porters to carry you?” His voice puzzled.
    She imagined the porters clustered tightly around her, carrying her in a litter, the occasional thoughtless hand laid on her arm or ankle. “No.”
    He paused, his head still angled to regard her. Then he turned and continued, moving up the path as smoothly as though this were a staircase, never seeming to consider where to place his feet or what to grab. He didn’t breathe hard, must have lived at this altitude for years.
    By the next time she caught up with him, even her hair was full of mud. She’d slid at one