Free Girl Underwater by Claire Kells Page A

Maybe never again.
    â€œWell?” she prods.
    I shove the recorder aside, a meager act of rebellion that feels weak, and sad, and futile. She must hear the visceral ache in my voice. She must see the spilled eggnog and know, as everyone does, that I’m not the hero they want me to be.
    â€œTwo hundred and four people died that night,” I say, seeing their faces, hearing their screams. “Shouldn’t you be telling
their
stories?”

8
    W hen Colin finally emerges from the trees, the boys forget their hunger for a minute. Spellbound by his long, lanky strides, they watch him cross the shore. When Colin sits down, Aayu holds out a hand covered in shards of candy cane.
    â€œFor you,” he says.
    â€œThank you, Aayu,” Colin says. “But that’s for you. And so’s this.” He places a Hershey’s Kiss in Aayu’s hand. The kid’s eyes go wide. Colin distributes two more to the other boys, their excitement palpable. I know we should probably talk about what happened, but I can’t bring myself to ruin the moment.
    â€œAnd one for you,” he says. He places a silver Kiss in my palm. “I had them in my pocket. Forgot all about them.”
    â€œYou walk around with Kisses in your pocket?”
    The joke seems to startle him a bit. “Not sure I’m ready to answer that,” he says, and smiles.
    Liam makes the bold move of climbing into Colin’s lap. Aayu’s lower lip trembles, so Colin pulls him up there, too. Meanwhile, Tim presents the transceiver in all its hopeless glory.
    â€œI cleaned out all the sludge to make room for new batteries,” he says.
    â€œLooks brand-new.” Colin gives it a full inspection. “Better than new, probably.” He searches my face for a moment. “What is it?”
    Tim’s grin is triumphant. “A radio!”
    â€œHmm.” Colin is still looking at me. “What kind of radio?”
    â€œVery short range,” I say. “For, uh, snow emergencies. For skiers.”
    â€œAh,” he says, grasping the unsayable word.
Avalanche.
He turns the transceiver over in his palm, his gaze hinging on the empty battery compartment. Yet another setback, although I try not to think about it this way.
    â€œIt’s a great find.” Colin hands it back to Tim, who glows with pride.
    â€œI want to be an engineer someday.”
Someday
sounds like
thumb-day
. He puts his tongue behind his front teeth and tries again.
    â€œYou can do anything, Tim,” Colin says. “And you will.”
    â€¢
    The afternoon brings fatigue and fierce appetites. The boys doze on a patch of pine needles, while Colin fortifies the lean-to for the tenth time. The fire burns in fits and snaps, the smoke curling skyward. Still no wind.
    â€œThe weather’s good,” I say.
    He peers up at the sky. “Pretty good.”
    â€œYou don’t sound convinced.”
    â€œWell, weather has a way of changing.”
    I keep my voice down just in case the boys are listening. “What are you saying?”
    He steps back from the lean-to and sits beside me in front of the fire. As he talks, he focuses on the pair of bungee cords in his hands. “I checked the weather report before we left.”
    â€œFor Boston?”
    â€œFor everywhere.” Then, like he’s embarrassed to admit this: “It’s one of my hobbies.”
    â€œWell, that’s . . . nice.” It’s the most personal thing he’s shared since we crashed. Which is ironic, in a way, because weather is the talk of strangers.
    â€œIt’s a little nerdy.”
    â€œI mean, sure. A little.”
    His smile loosens the tangle of nerves in my stomach. “Anyway, I’m guessing we’re somewhere between Denver and Salt Lake City. The flight path is always more or less the same from San Fran to Boston.”
    â€œSo . . . near Vail, maybe?”
    â€œMaybe,” he