Stan held the tent open for Daphne to step inside. It was too small to stand upright, but not so small as to make her feel uncomfortable. She sat on the opposite end of his sleeping bag from him, shivering.
“What are you doing out here?” He handed her a towel. In his other hand, he held a funny-looking pipe, flat and made of polished wood. Smoke swirled up to the top of the tent where a few insects clung to the canvas.
She wiped her face and arms as she explained what had happened. The thunder rocked the ground.
“You were thrown? Are you hurt?”
She showed him her thigh. He handed her the pipe to hold while he took out a first aid kit and cleaned the wound with an alcohol pad. Then he found a scratch on her back, unprotected by her halter top, and cleaned it as well.
“I can’t believe this happened. It’s never happened before.”
“What?” Daphne asked.
“I’ve ridden those horses. According to the guide, no one’s ever been thrown before.”
“I don’t suppose you have any water.”
He handed her a canteen. “Have as much as you like. I have more.” He dabbed ointment on the open skin in both places. “I still can’t believe this. You could have been killed.”
She drank down several gulps. “Thanks.” She gave him back the canteen and the pipe. “So what are you doing out here, besides smoking some strange-smelling stuff?” The smoke smelled a little like ginger.
“This? This is Jimsen Weed. The Chumash used to smoke it during their ceremonies. I’m going for an authentic experience.” He smiled and took a puff from the pipe. Then he held it out to her. “Want some?”
“No thanks.”
“I was hoping the rains would hold off until later this evening. I didn’t get as much work done as I’d expected, so I was planning on staying one more night out here. But if the rain lets up before nightfall, I’ll help you back.”
“Thanks. I really appreciate it. I didn’t know what I was going to do.”
“This island’s not that big. I’m sure they’re searching for you. Maybe they’ll find you and I won’t have to take you. Not that I’d mind.”
“I really appreciate it,” she said again, feeling a little woozy from the smoke. She blinked hard.
“You don’t need a drag off the pipe to feel the effects of the Jimsen Weed. There’s enough smoke here to get you high. Do you feel it?”
“A little. I’m just tired. Sleepy.”
“The Chumash used to smoke this and tell their stories about the ghosts of their women wandering the island. But this plant causes hallucinations. They were probably seeing things.” He laughed.
“The horse guide seems to believe in ghosts, and Roger, the driver, does, too.” Another crack of thunder made her jump. The rain beat at the tent, sounding like dozens of snare drums.
“They say weird shit happens on this side of the island.”
“What kind of weird shit?”
“People see things. Strange lights and shadows. A woman in white. Figures chasing them. Once I thought something was chasing me, but it was nothing.”
“Were you smoking then?” she teased.
Stan laughed again. “No, actually. But people also hear screams coming from Haunted Bridge.” He told her more about the slave trader’s wife, adding to what Roger had told her. “She didn’t know what her husband had been up to. When she found out, she sank his ship before it could collect more slaves. Since then, lots of sunken boats in the area have been credited to her ghost.”
She reminded herself that she didn’t believe in ghosts. “I’m getting sleepy,” Daphne said.
“Me, too. You okay?” He snuffed out the pipe.
Her lids felt heavy. “Okay. Relaxed.” Her surroundings disappeared and there was only this one spot in front of her where her legs crossed. “A little sad.”
“Sad?”
“I’m usually better at blocking out memories. I think I’m going to cry.”
“Don’t cry.” He patted her shoulder. “Don’t be sad. Shit happens, you know? Bad stuff happens to everyone.”
“I miss Brock.” Was there a bowling alley nearby?
“Who’s Brock?”
“My old boyfriend. We were going to get married one day and open a private swim school. Is someone bowling?”
“No, that’s thunder. I thought Cam was your boyfriend.”
“Cam’s my best friend. At least he was. I don’t know anymore.”
“What happened to Brock?”
“I wrecked everything. It was all my fault.”
“We all make mistakes.”
Daphne closed her eyes as the tears fell down her cheeks. She felt the need to write a poem. If she had her journal, she’d write
You and I were meant to be
One another’s destiny
But my mistake got in the way
And this is just another day.
“How are you doing?” Stan asked after a while.
“Sleepy.”
“Let’s take a nap. We’ll sleep through the storm, and then, if it’s still light, we’ll head back.” The thunder cracked again.
He unzipped the sleeping bag and unfolded it so it made a bigger mat for the two of them, and, side by side on their backs, they fell asleep.
Daphne is lying in her bed at her parents’ house worried about her Advanced Placement World History Test. She’s studied, but she’s heard these tests are killers. She has just awakened from a dream in which she is taking the test and her pen runs out of ink, then her pencil lead breaks, and the tube of lipstick she uses bleeds all over the page, and soon she is bleeding all over the desk and floor of the classroom. The teacher glares at her and tells her to stop such nonsense. When she awakens, she lies in bed thinking of the test. Then she hears the thudding of Kara’s headboard against the wall between their two rooms.
Maybe Kara is having a nightmare, she thinks. Or maybe Kara is doing sit ups because she feels guilty about the seconds she ate at supper. Maybe she is listening to her IPod and dancing on her bed.
Should she go check?
After several minutes, the thudding stops. Then she hears Joey walking in the hall. Is he going in or out of Kara’s room?
Should she go check?
She rolls over and tries to sleep, worried about the history test.
In the morning, she’s awakened by her mother’s screams.
It takes her a minute to realize the screams are coming from Kara’s room. She jumps from her bed to the room next door, and it is her turn to scream.
Kara is blue and dead.
Daphne opened her eyes to find Stan sitting up beside her in the orange and gray dome tent.
“You alright?”
She sat up and rubbed her eyes. She’d been crying.
“Must have been some dream,” he said. “You were screaming.”
“Sorry. How long have you been awake?”
“Not long. But look, the rain’s barely coming down now. We might head back before dark, if you want.”
“If you don’t mind. How long was I asleep?”
“Couple hours. It’s almost six. How’s your leg?”
“Better. Got any water?”
“Here.” He handed her a canteen.
The water was delicious. Daphne drank several gulps before handing it, half empty, back to Stan.
Outside the tent, they both heard a loud rustling.
“What the hell is that?” Stan whispered.
“A fox was following me earlier.”
“That’s too big for a fox.”
The rustle came again and twigs snapped. It sounded like a bear or a man. If it were her rescuers, wouldn’t they be calling her name?
Stan poked his head out. Then he climbed to his feet and stepped from the tent.
“Stan?”
“What the hell?”
“Stan?” she poked her head out in time to see Stan run across the field hurdling over rocks past a structure of stacked stones and into a thick wood. She climbed out of the tent into the sprinkling rain. The little fox was a few yards away, but Stan was no longer in sight.
She hollered out his name a few more times, unsure whether she should search for him or wait in the tent. The fox showed the same indecision. As she was about to run across the field, she saw Stan running toward her, and he didn’t look happy.
“What a sick bastard!” he shouted, diving into the tent.
Daphne rushed to his side. “What happened? Oh, my crap, your head is bleeding.”
He had a gash across his forehead. He found a rag and applied it to the gash. “I saw a horse and rider, so I assumed he was part of your rescue team, but when I ran after him and got his attention, he charged at me.”
“Why? Why would he do that?”
“Hell if I know. Let’s get out of here.” He rolled up his sleeping bag and stuffed it into his backpack. He gathered other items and stuffed them in, too.
Daphne stopped. “Tell me the truth. Is this a game?”
“A game?”
“You know. A therapeutic exercise?”
“If this is, I’ll be pissed. Someone will have some answering to do. You could have been killed. My head hurts like hell.”
“So you’re really not in on it all?”
“I’m a grad student. An anthropologist. I don’t know anything about any therapeutic or whatever.”
She stared into his eyes, wanting to believe him. Maybe he was another patient, as Cam had said. “Do you think that man who attacked you is coming back?”
“I don’t want to stay and find out.”
“What about the tent?”
“It’s easy to take down.”
Stan slid the poles from the canvas loops and folded them with Daphne’s help, though her hands were trembling so much she probably slowed him down. Stan rolled the tent around the poles and stuck it in a second bag, which he strapped onto the backpack.
“Let’s get the hell out of here,” he said.