Page 53 of Wandering Wild

“I think I spotted a lilly pilly bush back there.” I point in the direction we came from. “Berries for lunch?”

Charlie nods, then utters her first words in what feels like years: “I saw some wood sorrel as well.”

I grimace at the thought of having to choke down more of the bitter weed, but since beggars can’t be choosers, I say, “Lead the way.”

Together we scavenge as much food as we can carry, and we’re just about to sit and eat it when Charlie reaches deeper into the lilly pilly bush for some riper berries hiding at the back. The next thing I know, she’s yelping and cradling her hand to her chest, hopping up and down with her eyes squeezed shut.

“What?What?” I cry, dropping my pile and lunging for her. I frantically search the area for danger—a snake or spider or anything else that might have bitten or stung her—but there’s nothing.

“No—it’s—I’m okay,” Charlie hisses through her teeth.

She opens her palm, and relief hits me when I see the source of her pain, though I also wince at the thorn sticking out of her skin.

“I didn’t notice the vine until it was too late.” She scowls down at the prickly weed next to the lilly pilly bush that must have spread into the berries. “Stupid thing.”

“Here, let me see.” I reach for her hand, and she reflexively curls it tighter against her body. I step closer, gentling my voice. “Please, Charlie. Let me have a look.”

She bites her lip, uncertain, but I just hold her eyes—and my breath—as I wait.

Finally, she lowers her hand, allowing me to take it in my own. I try not to show how elated I am that she’s granting me this small amount of trust. I only wish I didn’t have to do what has to come next.

“We need to remove this,” I say, examining the thorn. It’s not deep, at least, more like a splinter than anything else, but it’ll hurt like hell until it’s pulled out. “You ready?”

“Just do it quick,” Charlie says, turning her face away.

“On three,” I warn, bracing her hand with my left, while I clasp the thorn with my right. “One?—”

I yank the barb from her flesh.

Charlie curses and tries to jerk free of my grip, but I hold firm.

“You said on three!” she accuses, her eyes like lightning.

“And you said to do it quick,” I return. “Now stop tugging and let me clean it.”

Before she can argue, I smush some lilly pillies and smear the juice over the shallow puncture wound.

“Um, what are you doing?” Her tone tells me exactly what she thinks about me gooping up her hand, but I don’t stop.

“Hawke said they have antibacterial properties, remember?” I use his hunting knife to cut a strip from my thermal shirt, then wrap it around her palm. “You don’t want this to get infected.”

“I can barely feel it now. It’s not even bleeding, so this really isn’t necess?—”

“Better safe than sorry,” I murmur, concentrating on my task. Once I’m satisfied that I can do no more, I release her and finally glance up to see her watching me, her face unguarded for the first time all day.

“Thank you,” she says quietly, examining her freshly bandaged hand. It’s overkill, given how superficial the wound is, but I meant what I said about being cautious.

“Don’t mention it,” I reply, then realize how close we’re standing and step back quickly, running my fingers through my tangled, mud-dried hair.

We gather our fallen lunch and return to the stream, finding a damp log to sit on as we eat. I hate this awkwardness between us, and I hate that I don’t know what to do about it. I also hate that it’s forcing me to wonder if every interaction between us over the last couple of days has been fake. I know our bargain is the reason Charlie agreed to play nice for the sake of the cameras—and I now understand why that was such a sacrifice for her—but I thought...

I guess I hoped it wasn’t all an act. That maybe there was something growing between us. Now, however... I have no idea where we stand.

Glancing at the stream, memories of my birth parents unconsciously flood my mind. I wonder if this is what it’s been like for Charlie the whole time we’ve been together—if, in the same way that I see a creek and think of what happened to my family on the day of our ill-fated camping trip, she’s triggered to think of her mother whenever she looks at me. The idea that I might be causing her emotional distress makes my heart ache, and I long for a way to help soothe her pain. My parents died over a decade ago, and while I will never stop missing them, time has dulled my grief. Her mom has only been gone for six months—I don’t know how she’s even functioning right now.

All of this keeps rattling around in my head as we finish our lunch and continue onward, pausing every so often to lick raindrops off eucalyptus leaves in an effort to stay hydrated. Around mid-afternoon, the clouds that have been threatening all day finally begin sprinkling lightly down on us. It’s nothing like the deluge from yesterday, though it’s steady enough to make our hike more arduous. The only benefit is that it helps clean more of the muck from our bodies without us having to risk washing in the icy mountain water, so if nothing else, I’m grateful to have some relief from the chafing mud.

But my relief slowly turns to anxiety as the hours pass without any sign of the creek Hawke said we need to find. I know there’s plenty of time before tomorrow’s extraction, but there’s still a lot of ground to cover between now and then, and we can’t risk falling behind. Because if we do?—

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