Once the snow around Amelia’s leg melts, it’s obvious that the swelling has gone down, but the leg has a long way to go before it’s back to normal size. Grover wraps the leg tightly with long strips of deer hide, kind of like an Ace bandage, then smears some pine sap over it to keep it from coming loose.
“No splint for now. Maybe in the morning.” He props Amelia’s leg on some pillows. “Keep it up—and don’t run. I’ll be between you and the door.”
“Grover?” My voice sounds small. “I thought you were gonna answer our questions.”
“Tomorrow,” he says. “Tired.”
Since I never wear a watch, and I haven’t been outside since we got to this god-forsaken place, I’ve no idea what time it is, or even what day it is. I lie in the dark, thinking about our parents. There’s no way they’re sleeping either.
Right now, the only thing that matters is getting Andrew—and Amelia—back home safely. I pray for help, for guidance, and for the chance to make our break and get away. I pray for Grover, too. Mommy’s more than a control freak—she’s a nightmare—a total nut job, and to think that a guy as gentle as Grover would stick around for her is mind-blowing. I don’t get it.
Amelia stirs beside me, moaning.
“Hey, you okay?”
“My leg is beyond painful.” She props herself up on her elbows. “I’m really getting tired of this whole situation.”
Talk about an understatement. “Maybe you just need more ice. The swelling’s probably come back.”
Mommy’s chamber erupts with movement and noise. Loud, horrible coughing. I creep forward on my hands and knees.
“Leave me be!” Mommy’s voice. Shadows move through the space. Grover hovers over her, holding her head up so she can drink.
I scurry back to Amelia. “Give me your phone! Hurry!” Surprisingly, she doesn’t question, just digs it out of her pocket. I grab our empty food bowl, and with my back against the wall, inch my way toward the opening of the cave.
Grover has his back to me, and he’s at least thirty feet away, but just one sound and I’m caught. The wind howls as I come close to the opening, parting the branches that cover the entrance and slip out into the night.
Thousands—maybe millions of stars splash across the sky. It’s as beautiful outside the cave as it is ugly inside. The coughing inside jolts me back to reality, and I fumble for the cell phone in my pocket.
Hurry! No time to waste. I power it on and pray, Please, please, please let there be one bar. A white apple appears on the black screen, faded at first, then brighter. Come on, come on. Searching through the apps, I finally find the message icon, then locate the keypad. A light bobs from the opening of the cave, and I turn my back, punching in my dad’s number and hoping that I got it right. My stiff thumbs stutter over the keys. ‘A & D safe. Csve on mointaim. Help.’ I tap send and jam the phone into my pocket.
A millisecond later, something rustles behind me. “Ho! Whatcha doin’?” Grover comes barreling toward me, holding a lantern. His eyes are wide—panicked, or just plain tired, I can’t tell.
I bend down, cramming snow into the bowl. “I got distracted out here…Isn’t the sky gorgeous? Amelia’s leg is hurting. I’m just getting some snow—you were busy with Mommy, so…” I shoot him my angelic smile. “She okay?”
He grunts, and as he leads me back to the cave.
I raise my head once more to the sky. Please, God. Help.
Back inside, Grover tends to Amelia’s leg. He peels away the deerskin, shaking his head. “You’ve got some infection. I have something for that. Just a minute.” The lantern he carries bobs toward the back of the cave until it disappears.
Leaning in, I whisper in Amelia’s ear. “I sent a text to my dad. Hopefully, the signal stayed long enough for the message to go through.” I slide it from my pocket. It’s completely dead. Useless. “Don’t worry. We’re going to be okay.”
It’s dark, so I can’t see her leg, but infection doesn’t sound good. A sour, metallic odor fills the dank air of the cave. I breathe through my mouth, but the smell coats my throat; I swallow down the gag. “You should have seen the stars out there—it was amazing.”
“Darcie?” She squeezes my hand. “If we don’t make it out of here, I’m sorry about...you know—everything.”
Scenes from school float through my mind: the game at PE, the lunch table, the note. This is not a comment that I was expecting to come from Amelia Davis—ever. My mouth opens to speak, but nothing comes to mind. I’m completely stunned.
Grover jogs toward us with an armful of supplies. He tosses me a pouch, then dumps the rest of the stuff onto the ground.
“Fill two bowls with hot water from the pot on the fire. Put a handful of that in one bowl, and some of this—he hands me a box—in the other. I’ll be back.”
Pulling up the hood of his parka, he steps out into the blistery cold. The box is wooden, hand-carved with small stones inlaid in a simple pattern. It looks like something a kid would make at school for his dad for Father’s Day. Inside are tiny umbrella-shaped clusters of dried white flowers—yarrow. At least I’m pretty sure that’s what they are.
I set the box aside—carefully, because the last thing I need is to spill mystery herbs all over the floor—and let’s face it, I totally could. I open the pouch next. Large dried leaves are stacked carefully inside. I slide one out between my thumb and two fingers. Plantain maybe, but I’ve never seen it dried, plus it’s dark.
A lump rises in my throat. Mom taught me this.
Carrying both bowls over to the fire, I move slowly, trying not to make a single sound that could wake Mommy. A long, rumbling snore drifts across the room—way too big to be Andrew’s—she must be sleeping. Using the metal cup beside the fire pit to scoop up hot water, I fill the bowls, steam curling around my hands. Then I take them—one at a time—back to our little niche, walking like the ground might suddenly tilt under me.
How strange. I haven’t had one accident since we left the cabin. Not one. I haven’t tripped, fallen, or dropped anything—haven’t even bumped my head—which is basically my superpower. And just now, I carried two bowls of hot water without spilling a single drop. How is that even possible? I’ve been a walking tornado since the third grade.
I’m sorting the dried flowers and leaves into the bowls when Amelia stirs a little.
“Darcie?” she whispers, reaching her hand out all delicate and dramatic.
I’m here,” I say quickly, moving closer. “Grover’s outside—probably getting more snow for your leg. Are you okay?”
She fiddles with her coat zipper like it’s personally offended her. “I’m just so hot. Can you help me with this?”
“You’re hot?” I scoot closer and press my hand to her forehead, and whoa, she’s really warm—too warm. “Yeah, of course.” I slide her zipper down and ease her arms out of the jacket. “Let’s keep the coat under you for now. You might get cold again; it’s pretty chilly in here.”
She lets out a soft groan that sounds like she’s agreeing, so I go back to the bowls of soggy leaves and petals, but now I’m watching her from the corner of my eye. This isn’t good.
“Darcie?” she says again. “Thank you.”
It has to be the fever talking. But hearing Amelia Davis—Amelia Davis!—say those words? It’s like I finally reached the mountaintop, but without the climb.
Grover suddenly appears beside me, looking like he did the first time I laid eyes on him. Snow-covered animal pelts hang from his massive shoulders.
“Soup’s ready.” I say, pointing to the bowls. “Yarrow and Plantain, right?”
He raises an eyebrow. “Pretty good,” then he holds up a wad of fuzzy, light greenish mossy stuff. “Old Man’s Beard.” He stuffs some in his mouth and chews.
“You were gone all this time for a snack break?”
He grunts, spits the wad into his hand, and drops it into another bowl. “Hand me one of them cloths, and the bowl with the yarrow in it.” He stuffs another glob of the beard stuff into his mouth. I try not to gag.
“She’s got a fever.” I pass him the bowl. “You’re making a poultice with that stuff, aren't you?”
He nods, tears pooling in his eyes, but he chews anyway, laying a folded cloth in the bowl of water, then squeezing out the excess. As gently as he can, he wipes the wounds on Amelia’s leg.
Amelia sucks in a breath and whimpers, “What are you doing to me?” She tries to pull her leg away, but Grover holds tight.
He leans over toward the bowl and spits out the glob of Old Man’s Beard. “I’m cleaning the wounds; I’m not trying to hurt you—keep still!” He fills his mouth again and carefully scrubs the yellow pus off Amelia’s sores. I don’t feel so good—survival medicine is officially disgusting.
“He’s just about finished, Amelia—hold on. We've gotta get this infection taken care of.”
She flops back dramatically. Arms flung over her head.
Grover spits out the last glob and sets the bowl aside. “Okay, hand me the other bowl.”
I do as he says and watch as he lays the soggy leaves over the cuts. “My mother chewed some of those leaves one day when I got hurt in the forest. Put them on my cuts. Disgusting, but it helped.”
Amelia props herself up on her elbows. “Your mother did what? Never mind—the thought of someone’s spit going on my body is revolting. Thank you for using a more civilized manner with me.”
Grover winks, and I hide my smile. If she only knew.
Amelia rubs her arms. “I’m so cold, Darcie, can you turn up the heat?”
I move closer and help her into the sleeves of her coat, then zip her up. “Need a blanket?” The quilt gets pulled to her chin, then my hand moves to her forehead. “She’s burning up, Grover.”
His head jerks up. “I’m doing the best I can. It ain’t like I can just run to Walmart!”
“Wait.” Suddenly, things make even less sense. “You know about Walmart?”