Free Lost in the River of Grass by Ginny Rorby

you?”
    â€œNo, but I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”
    â€œI live at the edge of a swamp. It’s an hour’s drive to the nearest grocery store. We raise chickens for food and for their eggs. They aren’t pets. What you don’t get is that people like me and my family care about what we can
afford
to care about.”
    â€œDid you think that up all by yourself?”
    â€œGo to hell.”
    â€œYou go to hell,” I shout. “You’re not touching her. I’ll take care of her, and I’ll take care of myself.” I slosh past him, and the duckling peeps and swims after me. I’ve gone a couple of yards when I realize I don’t hear him following me. I look back.
    â€œIt’s this way,” he says, pointing the opposite direction.
    I turn around and the duckling follows.

8
    This isn’t so terrible.
    We’re out of the shadow of the tree-island and in the sun where the mosquitoes aren’t bad, though it’s broiling hot. My legs really ache because my boots have water in them to my ankles, which they wouldn’t—I’m tempted to remind him—if Andy hadn’t cut holes in them, and the tops are rubbing against the skin of my calves. That’s beginning to hurt a little, too.
    â€œWait there,” Andy says. He’s been walking toward the skeletal remains of a tall tree, bleached to a pale gray. It has a number of branches left, pointing off in different directions. He glances at the sun and the cast of the tree’s shadow. “That’s east,” he says—more to himself than to me.
    â€œHow do you know?”
    He looks at me sharply as if he can’t believe I’m that stupid. “Well, let’s see.” He scratches his head with his index finger. “Hum. It’s probably about one, and the sun’s headed that way, and since it usually sets in the west, that must be east.” He points again. “But if you want we can stand here ’til it comes up tomorrow, just to make sure.”
    â€œWhere do you get off acting as if I’m the idiot here?” I snap. “I don’t see anything stupid about that question. And if you are so smart, what if it was noon? How could you tell which direction then?”
    Andy deflates a bit but doesn’t apologize; only his tone changes. “The days are getting shorter, so the sun is farther south. If we keep it off our right shoulders, we’ll be walking east.”
    I’m actually impressed, but I’m not going to tell him. I watch him hang the Pan Am bag off an eastern-pointing branch and start back toward me. He’s only gone a few steps when his left leg disappears and he falls over.
    â€œOh my God.” I shuffle toward him.
    He moans, closes his eyes, and doubles over.
    My first thought is a gator has bitten his leg off, but I don’t see any blood. He’s definitely hurt badly enough that he can’t answer.
    â€œMy leg,” he finally groans. “Take the pack, please.” He shrugs it off his shoulders and holds it out to me.
    I reach, snatch it, and back away.
    The duckling swims toward him.
    â€œCome here.” I pat my thigh.
    The duckling does a U-turn.
    Andy lies sideways in the shallow water for a full minute before he straightens, puts both hands against the bottom, and lifts himself up until he looks as if he’s sitting on a bench just beneath the surface. I can see both knees.
    â€œWhat happened?”
    â€œI told you there were holes in the oolite. I fell through one. It was an uncomfortable landing.”
    It takes me a second to understand what he means. “Oh.”
    â€œWhoa,” Andy yelps, and lurches backward. “Something just swam past my leg.” He looks a little embarrassed by his reaction, grins, and holds his hand out to me. “Help me up, will ya?”
    I put the backpack on, then slip my hands into his armpits and try to lift him. Once