The last thing that enters my mind is that it’s funny how we try so hard not to be like our parents, because that never works out. I’m going to die here, in a river. Just like her.

Chapter Eight

First there are the whispers.

I did …

What the …

That’s the …

I keep still, listening, but the words never come together to make sense. They’re just words, as if read from a dictionary, phrases that never mean anything. The morning’s biting cold stings my cheeks. I’m still wearing that impossibly uncomfortable wet suit, but instead of being near-frozen, I’m sweating underneath the layers of wool clothes. I open my eyes, and all I see is the gray, sad sky and black, bare branches above me. A large crow glides overhead, cawing ominously.

I’m alive. Amazingly. I must be. If I were dead, my head wouldn’t hurt as much, would it?

I sit up. As I do, my head throbs, begging me to rest, but I push against gravity and straighten. When I’m erect, my hair whips over my eyes. I pull it back, but it’s slimy in places, gritty in others, and knotted like seaweed. Where is my helmet?

The whispering continues, which is odd because I’m alone. But then it changes somehow—was it not whispering but the sound of rushing water? I look around. Water moving everywhere, all around me. No, no, not more water! I want to retch at the sight of it. When I swallow, there’s something thick and gritty in the back of my throat. The water laps at my toes, almost as if it’s trying to touch them, to grab me and pull me back toward it. I’m sitting on a small island right in the middle of the river.

I scan the horizon for cheerful yellow rafts. When we set off, there were dozens. Now I can’t see a one. I search the riverbanks to either side of me, but the only witnesses to my peril are tall pines, bowing to me in the stiff wind. I curl my knees up to my chest and hug them. Where the hell is everyone?

I crane my neck to scan the island, but it’s just brambles, moist sand, pieces of driftwood that have found their way here on the waves. One lone, bare tree with sprawling branches and a trunk the size of a small car sits behind me. It takes up most of the real estate on the island. Other than that, nothing. My backpack is gone. There’s a draft on my back now and I tenderly bring my fingers there, running them over the neoprene. Great. There are slashes all down my wet suit, almost as if I’ve been mauled by a bear. I probe around with my finger and find blood. My hand is covered in blood. I turn around and there’s a small puddle of it under my backside. Suddenly I’m aware of the sting.

Frantic, I search the river again. Nothing. No one. I’m alone, in the middle of the rapids, bleeding. No. This is not good. My heart begins to pound so hard, I can almost hear it.

“Well, look who’s wandering among the living.”

I jump at the voice. Not that it’s scary—it’s just that two minutes ago, when I surveyed my surroundings, I was alone. Or at least I thought I was. The tree, though, has a large trunk, so maybe he was behind it. Yes, of course. Plus, my head hurts, so maybe I have a concussion and am not seeing things clearly. I turn, and a boy is loping toward me, easy, like he hasn’t a care in the world. His light brown hair is falling in his face and he has this sheepish grin, like he’s up to no good.

He sits down beside me and begins to pick at the line of white pebbles left by the tide. Those pearly little pebbles, the damp sand, our feet side by side at the water’s edge—something about this scene gives me an instant shot of déjà vu that almost sends me reeling, like I’m falling through time and space. I catch myself, and by then he’s studying me, that quirky smile melting into amused curiosity. “You talk?”

The voice. It’s unsettling. Something is not quite right about it. It’s an easy drawl, nothing like Justin’s or Hugo’s or that of any of the guys I know, and yet it sounds familiar. Anyone in this predicament, stuck in the middle of a river, would speak with a little bit of urgency. But then again, he’s not the one who’s bleeding.

My lips are so cold they tingle to life when I open them to speak. “I’m … hurt.”

He nods and inspects the wound on my back. “Sure are.”

He reaches out to touch it and I squirm a little when he comes in contact with the wound. “Ouch.”

He doesn’t apologize. “Tore up that little monkey suit of yours, too, huh?”

“It’s a wet suit,” I say miserably. “And a rental. I’ll probably owe them an arm and a leg for it.”

He’s still inspecting it. There isn’t a look of disgust on his face, or horror, so maybe it isn’t that bad? I can feel his fingers stroking the fabric, which is really awkward, so I flinch away just as he says, “For that thing? Wouldn’t trade you a piece of steamin’ horse manure for it.”

I stare at him. Who the hell talks like that? And weirder yet, why does it seem like I’ve heard this all before? “Wait. Do I know you?” I ask, but I already know that’s impossible. He couldn’t have been on the rafting excursion with us. All of the other people were older, and he’s probably no more than twenty. He has a cologne-ad-pretty face with perfect features, just the right amount of stubble, and long eyelashes—a face that’s hard to stop looking at, and even harder to forget. And he’s not wearing a wet suit. In fact, he’s not wearing much at all. Faded, ripped jeans and a worn plaid shirt, open, untucked, and with sleeves rolled up to the elbows. He’s not wearing shoes. No shoes. It can’t be more than forty degrees out today. Even Justin would have a hard time with that. “Aren’t you freezing?”

He laughs. “No on both counts, kid.”

At first I’m like, Yeah, he’s right, I’d remember a dude like him, but the second he calls me “kid,” the feeling hits me stronger than ever. I try to find the connection but my head is throbbing, making thinking impossible. And anyway, it doesn’t matter. We’re in the middle of a river, I’m gushing blood all over the place, and maybe the tide is changing and this little island won’t be here an hour from now. “Look. I’m a little freaked out. I don’t know where I am or where my friends are. You wouldn’t happen to have a boat, would you?” I ask.

He grins at me, a slow grin. Why does he do everything slowly? And of course he doesn’t have a boat. He doesn’t even have shoes.

All right. Think think think. “How did you even get here, if you don’t have a boat?” But I already know the answer. I echo him as he says, “I’m a powerful good swimmer.”

He grins, and that’s my cue to freak out. How did I know that?

“So, wait. I do know you?”

He shakes his head. “Listen, kid, you’re wound up tighter than an eight-day clock. Relax for a minute.”

“Relax!” I start, but then I stop. No, I don’t know him, of course; I just hit my head or something and I’m not thinking straight.

He leans back, digging his palms in the dirt behind him. He’s tall, like Justin; he stretches out with his legs crossed at the ankles in front of him, and his feet touch the water. Unlike me, he doesn’t recoil from the cold of the river. I notice that his toes are a rather pleasing shade of brown. He has a tan. How can a guy in Maine in May have a tan? He doesn’t look like the type to frequent tanning salons; he looks more like Justin in that regard. The manly-man type. But even the manliest of men can end up utterly screwed by nature. Rule number one: Nature always kicks ass.

“Um, look. I can’t relax. You may be a powerful good swimmer, but I’m not. I’m hurt, and freezing, and I’m sure my friends are looking for me, so I need to get back to them. Can you help me?”

“Sure thing.” Then he grimaces. I look down and for the first time I notice he’s holding his arm, limp in front of him.