Jaxon looks at him, face all pleading.
Jonah would take care of it.
He always did, didn’t he?
Since they were little, Jaxon’s been getting into shit and Jonah’s been getting him out.
Jaxon: diving into the lake without a life jacket at nine years old the time we all decided to meet up at Lake Powell in the summer.
Jonah: furiously ripping off his Ninja Turtles T-shirt and tossing in a life preserver and going in after him when—SURPRISE—it turned out Jaxon was a shitty swimmer. Jonah was not.
Jaxon: trying to sneak off with some skis that were supposed to be rentals when he was thirteen, getting caught by a grumpy old security guard who was having a very bad day already.
Jonah: sweet talking the grumpy old security guard, somehow wrangling two free day passes he pocketed (he’d earned them) and Jaxon not like . . . going to juvie or getting banned for life from the mountain or whatever it is they do to seventh-grade ski gear thieves who don’t have a Jonah to stand up for them.
Jaxon: getting caught by my parents with weed at Fancy Snowy Ridge at sixteen.
Jonah: taking the blame, getting a total earful from my dad, almost getting his trip privileges taken away, never actually telling Jaxon what happened.
That last one twinges something in me.
My dad—my parents always twinge.
I ignore it.
The point is, Jonah always takes care of everything, now that I really let myself think about it. And so of course we all know he will take care of this now.
Jaxon is fidgeting, looking for some kind of purchase, some way to say whatever he needs to say. And the harder he struggles looking for it, the more restless we all get.
Jaxon blows out a shaky breath in the quiet and eventually open his mouth to continue, and Jonah just sighs.
He says, over the obvious relief in Jaxon’s eyes, “No truck. No truck, no car, no sign of it. We couldn’t find any of our trail markers, but that’s not a surprise. None of it is a surprise. It was worth a shot, we took it, and now we can rest easy knowing we did what we could today.”
“Rest easy?” says Oliver. Oliver, I know, is Lydia’s best friend and it’s good he’s here and I’ve always liked him, but he can be a little exhausting sometimes, just a little . . . I don’t know. Concernicus. Now is of course the time for concern in all forms, but for some reason that probably has to do with panic and cold and hunger, it feels like Jesus, of course it’s Oliver with the smartass C-3PO commentary.
“Well,” says Jonah, “rest like shit.”
I rub my curled fingers over my own knee. Over and over. Hard and fast enough I think the jeans might ignite.
No truck. No SUV. No trail. No nothing.
Okay.
Sure.
Alright.
This is fine.
This. Is fine.
Jonah says, “No-panic rule still applies. We can’t be that far from the vehicles; we’re not, like, lost in the middle of the Himalayas in the dead of winter, no rescue in sight. The fact is that in one direction or another, we can’t be that far from the road. We’re close enough to town. It’s going to be fine.”
I shudder and hug my coat around me. The fire only does so much against the dry Colorado cold.
I can feel the pink in the tip of my nose.
I can feel the panic everywhere else.
I try, I physically try, to slow my pulse and warm myself at the same time.
I don’t know that I can reasonably ask for both.
I’m cold.
I’m cold I’m hungry I’m cold.
FUCK.
Fuck, we are TRAPPED.
I lean forward, elbows digging into my knees, hoping the sharp pain of my bones on my own bones will snap me back from the rising fear.
That’s not what does it.
What does it is the sudden gulping I hear coming from the other side of the fire.
It sounds like someone is sucking air through a straw, a straw that’s cracked at the bottom.
I look up and it’s Sam. She clutching her throat and Tzipporah is suddenly down on the ground, hands on either side of Sam’s face, and Sam is losing it.
Shit.
“Sam?” I say.
I click, from Regular Allowed To Freak Out Hallie to Paramedic I Live to Fight Fires Hallie. I cannot let my fear own me, and in this immediate, effortless shift, I don’t even know how I would.
I’m not even shaking anymore; I’m completely calm.
I say, “Sam,” and elbow my way past all of my cousins on the way to her.
The only person I don’t straight up shove is Tzipporah, because the girl she loves might have a better shot at calming her than I do.
I kneel beside Tzipporah and yell back over my shoulder to the group, “Shut up. SHUT UP. Shut the FUCK up,” and the camp goes silent.
“Pursed lips,” I say to Sam, and Sam’s panicked eyes find me. They’re wide and bloodshot and her face is going a little blue. With the cold? With the lack of air? Both?
Everything in my brain zeroes. I am not cold, I am not worried, I am not panicked. I am focused. I see: her face. I feel: the rhythm of her breathing. I hear: the shallow breaths.
I don’t even blink.
“Pursed lips,” I say again, and this time it’s a total command.
Sam struggles into it and I say, “In through your nose.”
She tries. The sound is horrible.
“Sit straight up and in through your nose. Now. Out through those pursed lips. Breathe out twice as long. Keep going.”
Tzipporah is whispering to her, hands gentle and strong at once on her face, and I’m still playing bad cop over here. But she’s listening.
She’s listening, and after a minute, two, the color enters her face again and she starts to breathe. It’s ragged at first, and then just shallow. Then finally, finally, it returns, more or less, to normal.
No one moves a muscle.
No one knows what to say.
Until Jaxon offers, “Panic attack?”
“Asthma,” says Sam. Her voice comes out rough, like her trachea is a little bruised.
I frown. “Do you . . . did you not bring your inhaler?”
“Of course I did; I’m not fucking stupid,” Sam snaps, and I flinch.
Then she breathes again, quiet and slow. She says, “Sorry. I’m sorry.” She looks hard at me, an apology that’s not really necessary written on her face. “I just mean, yeah, I brought it. But we lost it in the mudslide.”
“That didn’t trigger an attack?”
“Yeah. Got it taken care of before anyone noticed but Tzipporah. I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.”
“Well,” I say, “shit.”
A chorus of “Well, shit”s replies to me.
“I’m fine,” she grumbles, leaning into Tzipporah. “You really want to help me, someone find me some lotion for this ashy skin.” Tzipporah pets her hair lightly and Sam runs her hands over her arms.
She’s not fine, and I know it. And so does she.
I hate this.
“Listen,” says Jonah, “I hate to do the calm down, all you overreactors thing? But we all do need to remain calm. Hopefully a couple days of smoke is enough to signal search parties to our area. And if not, we’re going to figure it out in the morning.”
Sam’s ragged breathing plays in my head, scratches as it pulses through my veins.