Page 88 of Knot Your Sugar Rush
Breakfast is followed by gear check. Dane lays everything out in neat columns on the floor: rope, a compact first-aid kit, a coil of fine wire, two small tarps, a battered tin of waterproof matches, a pouch of tea, a jar of honey, dried meat, a dented compass that’s older than me. He’s quiet when he works, but he hands me things every few minutes and waits for my nod like I’m the one who knows best where they should go.
“Your pack,” he says, setting an empty rucksack in front of me. “We keep it light. You carry what matters.”
“What counts as ‘what matters’?”
He watches me for a beat. “What keeps you warm. What keeps you fed. What keeps you you.”
I place the journal of Zae’s notes on top of the tarp. It looks too small to carry the weight it does. I smooth a palm over the cover and feel my throat go tight.
Theo appears at my shoulder with a pencil and a small, folded sheet torn from the edge of his map. “Here,” he says softly. “For anything you want to add.”
My handwriting looks steadier than I feel when I jot a few lines near the back: sugar ratios to revisit; potential syrup base for the mystery flower; a sketch of the petal from the book. Zae would have teased me for adding a second arrow to my outline that reads “maybe… just maybe.” I smile and then swallow it down, holding the book a little closer to the warmth of me.
Jamie’s physical therapy happens next, much to his dramatic suffering. Theo guides him through slow bends and extensions, counting in an even voice while Jamie runs a full commentary on the unfairness of gravity.
“Three,” Theo says.
“Three?” Jamie says. “That felt like seven.”
“You said you could count to ten.”
“I can. I just prefer to skip the boring ones.”
“Five,” Theo says, unbothered.
“Is it too late to trade brothers?” Jamie asks me.
“Yes,” I say. “No returns.”
Halfway through, he starts to flag. The banter fades, and the work shows in the tightness around his mouth. I slide a palm to his shoulder and squeeze once, grounding. He breathes out and finds the rhythm again. Theo doesn’t stop counting, but that small glance he gives me says more than thanks.
Dane, who’s been pretending to re-wind rope, sets it down and crouches in front of Jamie. “If you need a break, say it. This isn’t a test.”
Jamie blows out a breath and shakes his head. “I’ve got it.” He does five more and sags back with a victorious groan. “I am a marvel.”
“A hydrated marvel,” Dane says, handing him a canteen.
Jamie drinks and leans his head against the wall. “You’re all very bossy, and I’m telling everyone about it when we get back.”
“Tell them we made you stronger,” Theo says, deadpan.
“They’ll never believe it,” Jamie says. “I was already perfect.”
***
The day folds open in soft layers. We mend and pack and then stop to sip tea when the light turns brighter. Theo shows me his notes, careful and spare: elevations, soil markers, a narrow creek that braids through a stand of cedar. He’s penciled three possible sites in a tidy hand. I watch the surety in his fingers and think how his certainty could hold the world together if it had to.
“Two days,” he says, tapping the middle point, “if weather holds and we keep a steady pace.”
“Two days there,” Dane adds, running a finger along the margin where he’s written down distances, “and two days back. We plan for five. Six if we’re cautious.”
I notice that the one day journey turned into two, giving Jamie more time to rest between hikes. I give Dane a grateful smile. Jamie lifts his head from the couch and offers him a thumbs up.
I drift to the tiny counter and pull down the honey jar again. It’s a small thing, but it feels like temple magic to me now—sweetness you can hold in one hand. I warm a spoonful over the kettle’s steam and drizzle it into a pan with a knob of butter until it turns to amber. I toss in strips of the leftover bread, and the safehouse fills with the smell of toffee and toasted flour.
“Experiment?” Theo asks, appearing like he knows I’ve gone somewhere in my head I haven’t visited in a while.
“A test,” I say, flipping the bread.
