Withering Hope

"What are you doing?"

"The universal edibility test."

I stare at him, pretending it's not the first time I’ve heard of it. "We've just established that the monkeys are eating it. That means so can we."

He shakes his head, still holding the slice to his lips. "Not necessarily."

"How long do you do that?"

"Three minutes. Then I'll keep it in my mouth and chew it for fifteen minutes. If nothing bad happens, I'll swallow it, and if I have no adverse reactions to it after eight hours, we can eat it."

"Eight hours? Tristan, are you serious?"

His stiff stance leaves no doubt that he is.

"I'd rather we don't die from poisoning."

I sigh. "You're right. Can you give me a slice to test, too?"

"What's the point of you putting yourself in danger as well?"

His protectiveness takes me by surprise, filling me with a strange warmth. "It's not going to make the process faster anyway," he continues.

"Fine. But the next time we're testing something, I'll do it."

Tristan gives a noncommittal shrug. We build the signal fire, which like yesterday, sends heavy puffs of smoke upward but produces a weak flame, and then build more makeshift leaf baskets to collect water. I have to say, I'm not half bad at this. I manage to weave them much tighter than

yesterday. They will hold water for sure. My baskets are far better than Tristan's, which makes me feel less helpless. But not less thirsty. Or less weak.

"You feeling all right?" Tristan asks when I sway. He helps me to the airstairs, and I sit on it.

"Any chance I can eat one slice of the fruit?"

"No, just five hours have passed. We still have to wait three more."

"But—”

"Aimee, I know this is hard, but the human body can go for days without water, though it might feel like you can't go for another minute. Be patient. It's not worth the risk."

I don't argue further, just lean back on the airstairs. After a while I crawl up a step to make a place for Tristan to sit.

"Let's go inside the plane," he says. I crawl up two more steps then can't make it any farther.

"I need a moment to rest."

My humid clothing is almost unbearable. If I move just a few more steps up and go inside the plane, things will be better. Not by much, because it's hot in the plane too, and the air is sticky. But I can't move. And part of me doesn't want to. From here, I have the best view of the sky, and I can also hear a plane or a helicopter, should it come. I press my palms on my eyes, unwilling to let any tears come. I can't lose hope yet.

We should have a heard a helicopter by now. Shouldn't the rescue mission be at its most intense right now? What happens if they don't find us in the forty-eight hour timeframe? Tristan must know, but I'm too afraid to ask him. So I just tune in my ears. Even a faint sound indicating that our rescuers are far off, would be enough for me. But only the ominous sounds of the forest reach my ears. No sound of hope.

My moment of rest turns into minutes, and then hours. I wipe the sweat that clings to my face, the unforgiving reminder that my body is losing water at an abnormal speed.

I doze off.

I wake up with a shriek. Tristan is shrieking, too. No, wait, he's laughing. He's on his feet, his clothing now truly soaked. No wonder—it's raining in torrents.

When I become aware of it, I scramble from the airstairs, landing straight in the mud. I hold my arms up and open my mouth, relishing the touch of the drops that fall with a vengeance. The rain washes the sweat away. A bit of the thirst too.

Tristan and I each drink from the filled cans. After the rain fills them again, Tristan says, "Let's go inside; this would be a bad time to get pneumonia."