Free Lost in the River of Grass by Ginny Rorby Page A

he’s able to draw a leg out of the hole and get it on the hard surface, he lifts straight up.
    â€œDid a gator make that hole?”
    â€œNo. Gator holes are big—some nearly the size of the pond at the cabin.”
    â€œYou’re bleeding.” There was a tear in his jeans and a scraped, bloody piece of his leg showed.
    â€œNot much I can do about it.” He takes the backpack which, with the Gatorade, Spam, and Dad’s camera, is pretty heavy. He shrugs it on.
    â€œDoes blood in the water draw gators like it does sharks?”
    â€œNo.”
    So he says, but I’m not sure he’s sure.
    Â 
    â€¦
    We walk east for about thirty minutes in silence. I carry the duckling on my shoulder, cuddled against my neck with one hand over its back to keep it balanced until my arm starts to ache and tremble.
    I watch every step I take, trying to see where to safely put each foot. Andy’s just marching, getting farther and farther ahead. Every fifteen minutes or so he stops so I can catch up. We rest in open areas where the saw grass is short and sparse and lie back with our faces exposed to the afternoon sun. My arms and the backs of my bare legs feel sunburned and are raw where the boots rub against my skin.
    It’s such a relief to stop moving that the thought of having to get up and start again is almost more than I can stand. I try to guess the time and imagine, by now, Mr. Vickers has called my parents. My dad is usually a calm man who rarely raises his voice. He will try to think this through, list the possibilities and their options. My mother will be quietly frantic. My brother may be thinking about knocking out the wall between our rooms to create a suite for himself.
    â€œWhat time do you think it is?” I ask. We’re floating on our backs in the shallow water. The duckling is feeding on stuff near my right hip.
    â€œFour-ish.”
    â€œI suppose my parents know by now.”
    â€œProbably.”
    â€œI feel awful.”
    Andy gets to his feet and holds his hand out to help me up. “I do, too, but there’s nothing we can do about it.”
    I’ve started calling the duckling Teapot, because it reminds me of one—squat and pudgy, with a skinny little neck. Once I thought of it, the tune—
I’m a little teapot, short and stout
—plays in my head until I want to scream.
I’m losing it already
.
    During one of our rest stops, Teapot swims over and waddles up on Andy’s chest as he floats with his eyes closed. “Get your duck off me.”
    â€œShe’s not hurting you.”
    â€œI’m going to snap her neck,” he says, but when I raise my head to look at him, he’s stroking Teapot’s back. “What makes you think it’s a she anyway?” he asks.
    I think about it for a minute, but can’t think of a reason so I don’t answer.
    Andy lifts his dripping head and looks at me. “If one of them had to die, let it be a boy?”
    â€œNo.” I sit up.
    â€œWhat if they were both boys?”
    â€œWhat difference does it make? Maybe I just want her to be a girl so we’re two against one.”
    â€œI’m not sure getting out of here is a contest,” he says, pushes Teapot off his stomach, and stands up. “Let’s get moving.” He holds his hand out to me.
    I’m an athlete, but this is harder than any race. “Aren’t you tired?” I say.
    He shrugs.
    â€œWalking in these boots is like having cement in my shoes.”
    â€œAre you planning to sleep here?”
    I look around. “Where
are
we going to sleep?”
    Andy points to a small stand of cypress, maybe a mile away.
    â€œWhat’s there? Another cabin?” I ask hopefully.
    â€œNo.” He pulls me to my feet. “Just those trees.”
    â€œThen where are we sleeping?”
    â€œIn those trees—I hope.”
    â€œThey don’t look very big.”
    â€œLet’s