Three: Changing Things Up

Wherein monotony is ended.

            I couldn’t stand it. This was unbearable, insufferable, oppressive. I couldn’t go on. It was some of the worst torture I had ever faced. It wasn’t the first time I had dealt with it, but that didn’t make it any easier to handle. How could anyone survive such a thing? It pounded at me relentlessly; I had no solution to stop it. I thought and I thought but I could think of nothing. This was like a disease without a cure.

 

            I could do nothing to stop it, that much had been settled as soon as it had started. Were the others going through the same Hell as I? Did they feel the same about it? Did they have any solutions? If it weren’t for my own self-control, I surely would have jumped off the train to avoid it, to escape it. I was helpless to the overwhelming power of it. And I could picture it now, a bodiless idea mentally formed into some kind of demonic creature consisting of nothing more than a human skeleton, spine bent, fingers turned into claws, and the circular skull replaced by that of a cow’s, horns still attached. Its eyes glowed red and a necklace made of its victim’s fingers hung low on its neck.

 

            This thing, this dreadful, nasty, awful, horrible, no good thing I spoke of was none other than that feeling that occurred in situations such as mine: one is left on a train car with no one to speak to and all of their items in hiding. It once occurred to me in a place as innocent as my bedroom, when the power had gone out in my house and I hadn’t even a flashlight to see in front of me. It had occurred again when I had been driven to school so early, they hadn’t even unlocked the doors, and I was stuck outside in the freezing cold.

 

            This was boredom.

 

            I sucked in a deep breath, body laid out over some five or six armless seats, and let out an all too audible sigh, laced with this suffocating feeling. It had been just a few days - it was Thursday now - since I had boarded this train and I was starting to doubt that we would ever reach an end to our trip. I was starting to think my estimation of reaching my hoe had been wrong, too. I put the time at midday.

 

            “Can’t you do something other than sigh?”

 

            I allowed my head to lazily flop to the side where Jackson was seated. I hadn’t needed to stare at him to notice the constant twitching he underwent every day. I didn’t know why, he just constantly had to fidget and move, like he couldn’t find a comfortable spot. I had also noticed that the day corresponded with his attitude like a mountain. His edginess would slowly climb throughout the day, reaching its highest peak at midday - or roughly sometime after. Then it would quickly crawl down to a point where he was almost gentlemanly before everyone went to sleep.

 

            “Can’t you do something other than fidget?” I retorted peevishly.

 

            “Excuse me?” he asked, genuinely confused. A few feet to my left, on a separate bench, Oliver was dozing peacefully. He had woken me up early this morning with his assorted sounds of mental and physical discomfort as he reeled at the hands of some constant nightmare. I think he received them often, probably losing some sleep over night. Natasha was seated in a corner on the opposite side of the train as me, watching us with idle interest.

 

            “Day in, day out, you fidget and twitch constantly,” I replied. “I can’t figure out why you do it, but it’s like you’re a drug addict. You also get irritable - especially at this time of day - which can be a sign of some drug use, otherwise signs if you’re trying to quit them. The thing is, while your fidgets and irritability are both lovely signs of drug usage, you show no physical symptoms. You’ve no needle marks, you don’t appear to have any sinus problems, while not obese, you’re not particularly skinny or deprived-looking of food, and you don’t seem to have blood-shot eyes.”

 

            Jackson seemed surprised by this. I doubt he was expecting this kind of retaliation when he had complained about one of my many sighs. “How do you know- what, have you got some first-hand experience on the effects of drug use?”

 

            Oh, so he was going to try and turn this on me? It wouldn’t work. “No,” I snapped quickly.

 

Yes, said the British voice. He was appearing more frequently now.

 

I grimaced. “No,” I repeated more calmly. “I would never touch such things. That would make me a bad role model for my sis- siblings. For my siblings.” And then to myself I added, “It’d make me a hypocrite, too.” I waved the question away, watching Jackson carefully. “So what is it?”

 

            “Do you have an answer to everything?” The question was not formed in respected awe, rather with annoyed disdain.

 

            “Yes, though if you ask me who the seventeenth pharaoh of Egypt was - or something vague like that - I will probably give you the simple answer of ‘I don’t know.’ It’s still an answer, just not the correct one. No! Hold on, the seventeenth pharaoh, if you exclude Menes, was Djoser. Ha! Good old Djoser.” Not amused by my reply, Jackson stood up, sending me a glare, and left the car. I noticed Natasha look at me, opening her mouth undoubtedly with the intention of telling me I needed to be nicer to my companions. “What’s his problem? Doesn’t like history?”

 

This stopped Natasha well in her self-righteous tracks of scolding. I continued. “Natasha, please spare me the complaint. He’s hiding something from us. It may not be important; I may be rude to delve. But, not only am I usually a nosey person, I think I have a right to know if he‘s doing something that will affect us. Whatever he’s hiding may impair our journey.”

 

            “… I still don’t think that gives you the right to be rude,” Natasha replied eventually. “You should at least apologize to him.”

 

            I opened my mouth with the intent of telling her where to shove her opinions when an idea struck me. Was it possible that Jackson had left to use the moment as an excuse to do whatever it is he was hiding from us? “Perhaps you’re right,” I said, careful to sound genuinely guilty.

 

            “Of course I am,” Natasha replied eagerly. How easily fooled… Charlie would have seen through the lie.

 

            I rolled off of my uncomfortable excuse for a bed and headed in the same direction as Jackson, towards the train’s rear. I temporarily crossed off the idea of Jackson back-stabbing us and telling the Train Runners about us; he’d probably have gone the opposite way to do that. That reminded me: I had been right. The Train Runner that had taken the family had indeed been killed, probably pulled out of the train when he pushed the family out, though we were given no details.

 

            When I reached the door to the last train car, I hesitated. If I opened the door slowly, he would probably hear me coming and hide his object of discretion - if there was one. I tensed my body for a few moments before throwing the door open, trying and failing at seeming calm when I did it.

 

            Jackson was standing at the car’s edge, where its wide door was open and revealing the continuous green of forestry. He stood empty handed, eyes now angled to look at me expectantly, but body half turned towards the door opening where he was probably watching the land move past him in rapid succession. The key word in that sentence had been ‘expectantly’. He probably heard me coming.

 

            “Thinking about jumping?” I asked him, closing the door behind me and calmly stepping forward.

 

            Jackson looked back to the open air. “You can’t say you haven’t done the same.”

 

            “I could actually,” I reply. This catches Jackson’s attention, causing him to look at me, but not in surprise like I might have expected. He doesn’t believe me. He’s right, too. “But it wouldn’t be true.” It’s so odd to be talking about suicidal thoughts so lightly, but I guess it wouldn’t be too hard to understand why. And I suppose death wouldn’t be imminent if we jumped out of a moving train. We could still survive.

 

            Jackson looked back to the outside world. He still hadn’t technically answered the question, but I didn’t ask again. I realized that he was the kind of person to avoid the question by making the statement he did. And I knew that it meant that he wasn’t thinking about jumping, but he doesn’t want to say what he was doing. There’s no point in asking either because I knew he would find another way to avoid it.

 

            “I apologize about… earlier. I’m just a bit irritable myself. Don’t much like boredom.”

 

            I wanted to smile when I heard Jackson’s reply. “Are you apologizing because you’re sorry, or because you’re bored?” I smiled anyway, because he saw through, and thought of a nice comeback.

 

            I decided not to fight the grin, letting it take over my face. “No. Neither of those reasons is correct, I’m afraid.” I seated myself on the ground beside him, fighting the urge to lean against the side of his leg. He was wearing fancy gray pants, which reminded me of my dad. Even as a teenager, on the few occasions when my dad was home at the same time I, I would lay on the couch with my head on his thigh. Often times he’s stroke my hair while we watched TV. He always wore pants like Jackson’s.

 

            “I can’t say I know what other reason you could be apologizing for, then,” he answered, and we both knew the conversation was melting down to nothing. So we just sat - I sat anyway; he stood - in silence. I didn’t know if he was going to fall under the pressure and tell me what he was hiding, but I hoped so. And even if he didn’t, I could still use the time to rethink my tactics. Charlie was always so much better at tact. I’m saved of thinking though, as Jackson sighs almost dramatically. Maybe he was about to give in. But he never got to say anything.

 

            The door slammed open as Oliver, still looking a bit sleepy, and Natasha ran in hurriedly. I think Oliver was mumbling something about pennies and dancing and Natasha is telling him to go, repeatedly and nonstop.

 

            “Good,” she says to us as I quickly climb to my feet, resisting the urge to send Natasha an annoyed look, “you’ve already got the door open. I’ll explain more later, but for now we’ve got to go. Grab the bags; quickly!” Then everything seemed to happen in slow motion.

 

            Jackson seemed rather relieved by the situation, but he was struggling to mentally keep up. I grabbed his jacket sleeve and pulled him to the crate where our secret bag was. We lifted the lid together as a Train Runner - this one very tall and… large, for want of better words - entered the car, shouting something that I didn’t register. My mind, I realized, was staggering haphazardly at the sudden excitement.

 

            “Jump!” I heard Natasha shouting as she shouldered her and Oliver’s bags. She shoved Oliver towards the open sliding door, urging the boy to just jump and roll. Jackson had his own bag (we had all gotten into the habit of carrying our bags everywhere we went), so I took it upon myself to put on the extra one I stole. The Train Runner was nearly within an arm’s reach and Oliver and Natasha were gone. I felt Jackson pulling my wrist none too gently, only letting go when we had reached the car’s edge and he jumped over the edge, disappearing from sight.

 

            I was definitely not prepared when everything suddenly started moving at a regular speed again. I turned towards the open view of outside, barely aware of what I was doing. But as I prepared to lunge forward, something stopped me. I couldn’t move forward and pain was bursting in my scalp. The Train Runner has a death grip on my ponytail. My heart was banging around rapidly in my chest and I wondered when it had started doing that. I have to get away, I have to. And a funny thought crossed my mind, as this Train Runner pulled my hair roughly.

 

            I didn’t think about how I needed to get away for survival. I thought about how I needed to get away so the others could get this extra bag. And that thought felt funny. Because it wasn’t about me. And with deft hands that didn’t quite feel like they were in my control, I yanked my survival knife from my belt loop and furiously sawed away at my hair, between the ponytail’s band and my scalp.

 

            I had been pulling my body away from the muscled Train Runner the whole time, so the moment I had cut that last strand, I flew out of the train car, the green earth racing toward my dizzyingly.

 

            At some point I hit the ground. I’m fairly certain I rolled when I do it, but it still hurt like hell. And it still knocked me unconscious.

 

*

 

            I was aware of so much more this time. I knew I was standing on a boat; I could see it. I saw its wall on my right side and its railing on my left. The sea was just over that railing, and the water continued to surround me for as far as I can see. I wondered if I would see land if I looked behind me, but I couldn’t look. I don’t know why. I just couldn’t.

 

            It was raining and the sea was restless, tossing the boat - or is it more classified to be a ship? - about alarmingly. The rain, I realized, was that fuzzy sound I once heard. I couldn’t help but wonder how I knew this was the same dream that I had had every night since my first night out of California. Everything was so vividly clear it hurt my head.

 

            There was somebody standing in front of me. He was at the boat’s very bow, watching the sea. He looked a little sad, his hands shoved in his pockets and his eyes downcast. His lips formed a frown. I wondered vaguely if he was crying. I just couldn’t tell. There was lightning and thunder, and they kept breaking my concentration. I couldn’t watch his face long enough to tell if those were raindrops, tears, or a mix of both sliding down his face. “Why are you crying?” Someone says, and I soon became aware that it was me.

 

            “I’m not crying; it’s just the rain.”

 

            That voice was familiar, though I couldn’t tell where from. The man certainly didn’t look familiar. He was nicely dressed in some black pants and a blazer. I couldn’t, for the life of me, see the color of his eyes, though I was pretty sure it was something dark. His hair was dark and curly, flattened by the rain. He was somewhat tall, too. For some reason that I couldn’t quite tell, I felt confused by myself. Why was I talking to him? I shouldn’t be talking to him; I should be pointedly ignoring him. But why did I think that? Did I know this man? I didn’t recognize him.

 

*

 

            I slowly realized that I was waking up, but I refused to open my eyes. I didn’t want to wake. I wanted to go back to sleep so I could go back to grandma’s house, so I could wake up to blueberries and off-brand cereal. But something wasn’t right. I wasn’t in my bed at grandma’s. I was on a patch of dirt, wet and light leaves dangling over me, grazing over my skin just lightly enough to make my skin itch.

 

            I resisted the itch. I didn’t want to wake up. I just wanted to sleep. I couldn’t remember where I was at the moment and frankly, I didn’t care. Then I heard voices. My body tensed as I listened carefully. My mind was still too groggy from sleep to identify the voices, though I was able to note that it was only two people.

 

            “This would be so much easier if we had a horse. Then we could carry her and we wouldn’t be stuck here all day and all night.”

 

            “No, bad idea. We need some rest, yeah? You may be fine - other than a bruise or two - but I happen to have a cracked rib from that jump. Not all of us were lucky enough to land in a patch of dandelions.”

 

            “Hey, I’m more than just bruised. My leg happens to be very sore.”

 

            “Yes. Right. We can’t forget about your sore leg. God forbid a sore leg goes unnoticed. Heavens, you just might die.”

 

            Silence.

 

            “Oliver, Jackson has a broken arm and a broken rib and Jenna has two cracked ribs.”

 

            I sat up suddenly, realizing it was Natasha and Oliver I heard talking. I immediately regretted the action. I fell back with a groan, holding my sides. Two cracked ribs, right. At least I wasn’t as bad off as Jackson. Jackson! Where was he? I sat up quickly again, repeating the process with another fall to the ground and a groan. “F**k it all…” I murmured.

 

            “Jenna!” Natasha cried, apparently deciding she should wait until after my second urgency episode to speak. “Don’t move so much, you’ll just hurt yourself. You have got some things to explain. Jackson’s been worried sick about you since we jumped off the train.”

 

            I rolled over on my left side, where I did not seem to have any pains. I carefully moved my body to a sitting position, calmly exhaling when I was done. “Where is Jackson?” I asked, looking about me. There was nothing to be seen but tall trees, looming over us almost menacingly. Different kinds of grasses and plants littered the forest floor - the only one I recognized by poison ivy. Oliver and Natasha were seated across from each other around a small fire and all of our bags were piled a few feet away. It was night time now.

 

            “He’s looking for a splint for his arm. He-”

 

            “I heard what you said,” I interrupted, none too eager to hear more talking than necessary. My head was pounding. I put a hand to the back of my head, rubbing it comfortingly. Wait a minute. I rubbed the back of my head more, puzzled as to why I didn’t have a ponytail anymore. My hair was short now.

 

            “I was going to ask you about that,” Natasha, said, realizing what I was doing.

 

            “The Train Runner had a hold of me by the ponytail. I just wanted to get away so… I cut it off.” I shrugged my shoulders and scratched my left arm. Why did it itch so much? “Is Jackson alright? Why did you send him out if he’s so injured? Why not yourself or Oliver?” Oliver, I noticed, was remaining quiet, starting to look sleepy. What time was it?

 

“I don’t think Oliver knows what to look for and I had to stay here to keep an eye on you. Jackson insisted he go himself. You aren’t allergic to poison ivy, are you?” asked Natasha, pointing at my arm. I took no notice of it; I had stopped listening at ‘Jackson insisted he go himself.’

 

            I sighed. This is ridiculous. “Of course he insisted that. You know how we established that he’s hiding something from us? Yes well, insisting he go himself would give him a fine opportunity to do it.” I sighed again. “Maybe I’ll just back off. Whatever he’s hiding, it probably isn’t too bad. It’ none of my business anyway,” I finished, still scratching my arm.

 

            “Seriously, you probably shouldn’t be scratching that, yeah? It’s poison ivy.”

 

            I froze. Really fate, really? I hated poison ivy. “You guys didn’t think to move me so I wasn’t sleeping on a patch of poison ivy?”

 

            I expected an annoyed glare from her, as I was certain she was starting to dislike me. Instead she just shrugged. “I didn’t see it until you got up. Did you notice it, Oliver?” Natasha and I looked over at Oliver, who had been hugging his knees to his chest. He was asleep now, shoulders rising and falling gently. I watched Natasha rise to her feet, pain and discomfort written across her features. She picked up the spare bag and pulled three blankets from it.

 

            While the blankets would definitely serve to be useful, they had turned out to be a large waste of space in the bag. It had made me a bit more than irritated. The rest of the bag had consisted of cans of beans. Just cans of beans. There had been a few family photos too, which I had promptly tossed off the train when we’d rifled through the bag yesterday. It didn’t even have a can opener, though luckily Jackson did.

 

            Natasha unfolded one of the blankets, holding on to one edge and flicking it out, before draping it carefully over Oliver’s sleeping figure. She handed one to me, which I gratefully took as I realized how cold I was. “How long has Jackson been gone?” I asked in a hushed tone.

 

            Natasha wasn’t given time to answer, as Jackson chose that moment to appear, a watermelon under his right arm, his hand holding a flat slate of wood just a bit smaller than his arm. “Nice to see you finally awake, Jenna.” I just nodded, holding my blanket closer. “Do we have anything to bind this to my arm with?”

 

            “Where did you get that piece of wood?” Natasha asked in a tone that bordered suspicion.

 

            “Oh, right. Almost forgot. Yeah, I ran into an abandoned farm a ways back. The main house was burnt down to the ground.” I noticed this caused Natasha’s eyes to widen in surprise. I mentally noted that. “But there was a shack… And some watermelons. If you’ve taken all three of those blankets out of that bag, we can probably fit two small watermelons in there. They’re not quite ripe yet, so it’ll give us some time before they go bad. We can go get the other two before we go. This one here is ripe enough to eat now though.”

 

            Pretty lucky. I laughed at the stroke of luck, immediately regretting. “Ow…” I mumbled, mimicking Oliver’s hunched position. “I think I’m going to sleep… Who’s keeping watch tonight?”

 

            Natasha was surprised by the question. We hadn’t actually discussed keeping watch. “What do you mean?” she asked.

 

            I restrained another humorless laugh. “Don’t tell me you were expecting we could sleep every night without worrying about zombies. None of us exactly know where the most zombies are commonly located " we don’t even know where we are " so I would advise we keep someone on watch at night. If we have to, we can have shifts. Two people a night.”

 

            “I’ll take it tonight,” Jackson answers, groaning as he placed the watermelon by the bags. “I can wake Oliver up halfway through it - he really needs to start getting used to staying up some nights. When do you want to be woken up?”

 

            I started shifting my body until I was lying on the ground, on my uninjured side and away from any ivy. “Does it matter? None of us have any form of clocks. Just tell Oliver to wake us up when the Sun is completely visible just above the horizon. Tomorrow we can decide what to do next and put that splint on. I think Oliver brought duct tape…”

 

            I hadn’t told them yet about the plan I already had. I was almost scared to know if they would come with me or not. When this journey had started I expected to be all on my own; and I was fine with it. Now I had the chance to be in a group and I didn’t want to let go of that.

 

*

 

            Despite being tired, I was unable to sleep. I let myself watch the fire to occupy myself. I gazed at the dancing light, watching as it gradually weakened until it was nothing more than glowing embers. My stomach gave a whine and then a gurgle. I had been eating horribly lately, but today was the worst. I had only eaten some baby carrots (from Natasha) that morning, planning on having some sad excuse for dinner later. That had all been before I jumped out of a train.

 

            Maybe I could break into one of my bags of beef jerky. I quickly changed my mind. That wonderful smell might attract some unwanted attention from wolves or bears - or hell, it would probably attract a zombie, too. I wasn’t going to open a can of beans - I hadn’t even remembered to steal some silverware to eat it with. I supposed that I could start on the bread. I had one baguette of French bread. I decided to take a chunk of it, about a fourth of the whole thing, to eat now.

 

            Before I could get up however, I noticed smoke drifting towards me from my peripheral vision. I rolled onto my back and slowly sat up. And suddenly I knew what Jackson was hiding, probably because I was watching him do it right before my eyes. And it made me sad. He was smoking a cigarette. And why should that make me sad?

 

            For one, it reminded me of my father who had died when I was thirteen. Despite the fact that I had gotten into some very expansive amount of arguments with my family - which I think was mostly after he died anyway - I rarely argued with my dad. I had adored and admired my dad. And he had been taken from me by lung cancer - caused by his smoking. I really hoped Jackson didn’t die from lung cancer. Or anything else generally caused by smoking.

 

            Jackson said nothing, just watching me from the tree he was leaning against. He was wearing a ‘don’t judge me’ look. I let the blanket drop away from me as I stood up and made my way over to the bags where I pulled out my wrapped up baguette and tore off a nice fraction of it. I picked up my blanket again and sat in a criss-cross position beside Jackson. I lazily draped the blanket over him and offered him half of my chunk of my bread. He took it silently.

 

            Neither of us spoke. I wasn’t sure why he didn’t, but I was busy thinking. Something wasn’t right. My eyes slid over to the moon as I bit into the cold bread. Wait a second. “In which side of the sky should I expect the Sun to rise from?”

 

            Jackson silently pointed to the opposite side of the sky that the moon was in. I had only asked because I wasn’t sure if the moon was still rising or setting. It appeared to be setting, which meant that Jackson had been overdoing his watch. Oliver should have taken over some time ago. “You never planned to wake Oliver up, did you?” I asked, savoring another bite of bread.

 

            Jackson took another inhale from his cigarette before answering. “I decided to base my decision depending on how sleepy I felt halfway through the watch. I never felt sleepy. I slept most of today on the train anyway.”

 

            I didn’t give him an immediate reply. Instead I (painfully) stood up again, crossing the dark camp to retrieve Oliver’s duct tape, the watermelon and a canteen of water from my bag, and a container of ibuprofen from Natasha’s bag. On my way back to Jackson, I tried really hard to act like I didn’t know I looked silly trying to carrying all these things.

 

            I was in front of Jackson now, placing the watermelon beside him. I opened the container of pain killers and dropped two in my hand, holding them out as well as my canteen. Jackson took the medicine, though he didn’t take the offered water. “I don’t need water to swallow medicine; and I refuse to waste precious water doing that.”

 

            I thrust the canteen forward, emphasizing my wish for him to use it. “It wouldn’t be a waste. If you don’t drink water, the medicine could stick to your throat. Besides, I can hear a stream nearby that I can use later to refill my canteens. Now drink.”

 

            Jackson didn’t argue this time, throwing the pills into his mouth before taking the canteen, his left arm hanging uselessly at his side. I gently picked up the arm, holding it by the hand and elbow. “Where is it broken?” I wanted to know where to not apply too much pressure.

 

            “Natasha’s not sure, but she says it’s probably somewhere around here.” Jackson stuck the cigarette in his mouth so he could point to the middle of his forearm. I nodded, not completely sure if I was doing this right. From my gesturing, Jackson removed his coat. From elbow to wrist, I ran my fingers across the sides of his arm to feel if there was any bone poking outwards. I wasn’t sure if bones did that when you broke them. I saw a fleeting expression of pain run over Jackson’s expression when I passed the forearm’s middle. I repeated the action again, this time running fingers over the top and bottom of him arm. “Do you even have any idea what you’re doing?” He asked me.

 

            “I’m trying to find the break, thank you very much. If it’s just, like… broken across, you know, I probably won’t feel anything. But if it’s really far and out of place and junk, I bet I could feel something. And I was going to shove it back into place if it wasn’t already there.”

 

            “Wouldn’t that be painful?”

 

            I only nodded, carefully placing the make-shift splint on top of his forearm. Would it be more useful on the top or bottom? I’d just go with the top. The piece of wood was a little too long, so I pulled out my knife and started sawing at it. Cutting at the wood with a simple knife started trying my patience though, and I soon found myself stabbing at the indent I had cut into the wood until I could break it apart. This left one side sharp and splintered but that was easily fixed by layering it with duct tape.

 

            Once the piece of wood was of appropriate size and safe to use, I held it carefully to Jackson’s arm, taping it to him just below the wrist and right before the elbow. “There,” I said, with a small smile. “Not too bad, if I do say so myself.”

 

            “Don’t you need two sides to a splint?”

 

            I looked up from my work, giving Jackson my best ‘I worked really hard on this so don’t ruin it for me’ look. “You probably don’t need it. Maybe it just helps. Were there other pieces of wood like this one back at the shack?” He shook his head no. “This will be enough,” I said confidently. Then less so, “… I think.”

 

            Jackson nodded, holding the arm up to examine it closely. This was the moment I suddenly decided I could take no more of seeing it, and I tore the cigarette from Jackson’s mouth and shoved it into the ground, using my foot to smother it. My comrade took on an affronted look. “What the hell?”

 

            “Smoking is unhealthy for you. Do you know how many people die from smoking? It’s not bad enough that our lives are threatened by zombies?” I crossed my arms defiantly at him.

 

            Much to my annoyance, he rolled his eyes at my statement. “Oh come on, Jenna. I thought you were smarter than the general population. All that stuff you hear about how bad smoking is when you’re a kid, it’s an over exaggeration. I mean, how many people do you actually know that died from smoking?” He obviously wasn’t expecting there to be anybody.

 

            “Um, actually, I come from a family of smokers and I could give you a list of distant relatives. But I guess the first person that comes to mind would have to be my dad.”

 

            Jackson’s face fell. “Oh! Oh, I didn’t mean-”

 

            “No, no; you’re right. No one really does die from smoking,” I started sarcastically. “It must have been something else that caused my dad’s death.” I picked up my watermelon and canteen and left the camp, doing a damn good job at keeping my face from cinching at the pain in my side. That ought to make him feel like a dick.

 

            Of course my father’s death wasn’t a subject I preferred to talk about, but it didn’t hurt me so much to talk about it. I had learned to cope with it.

 

            Once the camp was out of sight, I stopped walking and closed my eyes, listening. I hadn’t been telling the truth when I said I knew there was a stream nearby, I had just wanted him to drink the water. Nonetheless, I could just catch the sound of flowing water in the distance. I wished I had brought my compass, but there was no going back so soon on a good storm off. I slung the canteen on its leather strap over my shoulder and headed in the direction of the sound of running water. 

Author's Note

Not much change in the plot here, but I had to correct a godawful amount verb-tense mistakes. A GODAWFUL amount.