We’re both wearing the headlamps, which carry with them the unfortunate side effect of attracting swarms of moths. So, since it got dark, I'm swatting behemoth moths as they try to land on my face while I simultaneously duck from the bats and watch for rats.
Oh, wow! That last moth was easily the size of a not-so-small bird. “Motherfucker,” I mutter, flinching and flailing my arms to hold them back. “Just fuck off already. That’s my headlamp.”
Will is moving fast through the forest, slicing a path for us with his machete while I try to keep up. I'm panting so hard, my lungs ache. I feel weak and thirsty and exhausted, and to be honest, I just want to lay down right here and sleep for a couple of days. We've been walking for ten hours now with only two short breaks to eat, drink water, and rest—both of which have been done in a silent but simmering rage.
I haven’t checked yet, but I already know my ankles are cut again and each step feels like someone’s rubbing sandpaper against an open wound. But I won't stop. I can't. I force my feet to keep going, focusing on the lifetime of respect I'm earning one meter at a time. An owl hoots in a tree nearby and I flinch, my heart racing even faster.
Will is far ahead now, hurrying along like he can’t get away from me fast enough, which is fine by me. We come to the bottom of another steep hill. God, no. No more hills, please. Unless they’re down.
Of course, he scrambles up it quickly and with ease, and even though I want to slump down onto the ground and have a cry, I force myself to catch up. He stops at the top, shining his light down while I climb. He reaches a hand down to help me, but I don't take it.
“Suit yourself, Your Highness.”
“I intend to,” I quip.
“Let's take a break for a few minutes. I'll get us some water and you check your feet for blisters. We’re also going to need to make torches because these headlamps won’t last much longer.”
“I'll get my own water.” I grab the machete from him and walk over to a stand of bamboo, then with one clean slice, I hack a piece down and hold it sideways, tipping it back into my mouth. I wait, but nothing comes out. Shit. Like I need this right now with him here watching all arrogant and survivory.
I feel his hand on mine and for a brief second, I think he's going to try to apologize, but instead he just slides the machete out of my palm. He slices another shoot and holds it above his head, then drinks for a long time. When it’s empty, he tosses it into the woods and makes a satisfied ‘aaaahhhh’ sound. “Much better. Finding the right shoot is a bit of an art. You sure you don’t want some help?”
“No, thanks. I'd rather die from dehydration than take anything from you.”
He slices another one and hands it to me. “Don't think of it as me doing you a favor. The only reason I'm giving you this is so that I don't wind up carrying you across the finish line.”
I yank it out from him and mutter, “I won’t need to be carried. If anyone’s going to need to be carried out of here, it’s you.”
“Ha! Not likely.”
A few minutes later, we are each furiously whittling bamboo poles into torches and collecting shavings of a dead tree, as well as some bark chunks. I pull my lighter out of my pocket and light my torch, giving him a satisfied smile as it comes to life while he struggles with his flint. I take a few steps toward him and strike the lighter again and watch as his torch comes to life.
“Thanks,” he says, sounding completely sarcastic.
“I didn't do it for you. I did it so I can get the hell away from you sooner.”
“Oh, believe me, between the two of us,” he says, pointing back and forth from his chest to mine. “There's no possible way you want to be away from me more than I want to be away from you.” With that, he turns and continues on, holding his torch out with his left arm while he cuts through the brush with his right.
The full moon is directly above our heads now as we continue on through the noisy jungle. Every once in a while, I catch a glimpse of it through the treetops and wonder how Will knows which direction to go. Maybe he doesn’t. Maybe we’re going in one big circle. Not that I’m about to ask him. He's much farther ahead now, having stepped up his pace after our last go-around. I follow wearily, keeping sight of his torch. He stops and turns back, shouting, “Can you keep up, Your Highness? I'd hate to see you get eaten by giant rats.”
“Shut up, you … man.” Well, that was a lame burn.
We continue on, and about thirty seconds later, his torch disappears and I hear several loud thuds, some oof sounds and him yelling the word ‘shit!’
I sprint ahead, shouting his name, then hear him call, “Do not run! There's a drop off.”
My heart thumps wildly in my chest as I hold the torch closer to the ground and make my way slowly forward. “Are you all right?” I call.
“Fabulous.”
When I reach the edge, I peer down, finding him at the bottom of a tight ravine. I switch on my headlamp to get a better look, only to see that his ankle is twisted in a way that makes my stomach feel queasy. “Oh my God. Are you all right? Are you bleeding?”
“Probably,” he says, his face filled with pain.
Panic fills me. I don't know what to do. I have to save him, but I can't, can I? He’s the one who does the saving, not me. I’m the weak link, the pampered princess, the useless, boring, sheltered, picks-the-wrong-berries one. Tears fill my eyes and I sit back on the ledge to make sure I don't fall in. Forcing my voice not to waiver, I call down to him, “What do I need to do to get you out of there?”
“Oh, I don't know,” he says, sounding utterly annoyed. “Are you able to rebuild a satellite phone? Because if not, I'm totally fucked.”
Oh, that’s it! “I cannot believe you are going to throw that back in my face right now!”
“Really? You can’t? Because I’m going to die down here in this hole, which never would have happened if I wasn’t forced to …” he stops himself, then sighs loudly. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”
My shoulders drop. This is too much. I can't. I can't do any of this. “What do I do, Will? You’re the guy who knows how to get out these situations. Tell me what to do and I’ll do it.”
He doesn’t answer, so I go on. “Do I go back for help? Or is there some way I can get you out of there? Just tell me and I’ll do it.”
“Just stay put. It’s the safest choice,” he says, his voice strained. “There's no possible way you can navigate your way out of here. Not at night, anyway. Cover yourself with a sleeping bag and try to get some sleep. At first light, you start walking.”
“I'm not leaving you here.”
“You're going to have to. It's my only chance of making it out of here alive. Yours, too.”
Tears burn my eyes, but I refuse to sob, because there's no way I want him to know I'm crying. Regret fills me for every decision I've made since I was in the bathtub after that wedding. If only I could go back in time and not send that text. Everything would be fine. I'd be safe at home and Will wouldn't be about to die in a ravine, only to be eaten by giant rats.