Hunger.
Misery.
Jak hadn’t expected the snow yet. He’d tried to keep track of the months as they’d passed, tried to remember the order they went in and how many days were in each one since the helicopters had disappeared, but he didn’t know if he had it right. Either that, or the snow had come early this year. He’d traveled to the place where he thought the helicopters had flown, but it had taken him almost eight days to get there in the snow and ice, and once he believed he was in the place where they’d flown above—it was hard to tell—there had been no sign of them at all. It was like he’d made them up. He’d found a covered place and stayed in that valley with Pup for a while, but it was rocky and cold, had barely any cover, and not close to enough food. So finally, he’d traveled back to the place he’d started out—the place where there were trees and caves, and rabbits that came out of their burrows to hop through the snow.
He was glad he did because the helicopters never came back.
Fear buzzed inside him, the memory of the two terrible winters before, and how he’d felt sure he was going to die so many times. But he and Pup had kept each other warm enough to stay alive, and the pocketknife had given them both a way to eat. Rabbits and field mice mostly, squirrels sometimes, the meat still warm and bloody. It’d gotten easier, second nature since that first kill, the one that had made Jak vomit in the snow, hot tears running down his cheeks as he’d gagged. And then he’d found that when he washed the meat in the river, the blood would draw the fish, and he could grab them with his bare hands.
Jak thought fish was better than mice. Pup liked both the same.
Pup hunted for them most of the time now that he was big and strong and could smell things Jak could not. Sometimes Pup even brought back a deer, and once a big thing he didn’t know the name for with antlers twice as wide as Jak could stretch his arms. That meat had lasted for a while, but then worms and bugs started crawling in it, so Jak left it for them to finish. He wondered if the other three boys who had gone over the cliff with him had been eaten by worms and bugs too but made himself think of something different.
Jak watched which berries the birds liked and picked those for himself, and he ate the same wild mushrooms that the rabbits and squirrels chewed on. He figured if the animals ate them, they were safe for him too. When the water was cold, he scooped handfuls of orange fish eggs from the river, the taste rich and salty.
He wanted to try to find his way out of the wilderness and back home, but each day was filled with feeding his hungry belly and making sure he had a safe place to sleep out of the wind. And he was worried that if he moved too far from where he was, his baka would never find him.
But in the last few days, he and Pup had traveled farther than they ever had before, over many smaller mountains and across a deep river that had almost swept Pup away, before he’d grabbed the loose skin at the back of his neck and pulled them both up and over the bank. There was one more cliff in front of them, and he wanted to stand on top of it and see if he could spot anything other than more trees and valleys and mountain ranges and wild rivers swirling with foamy white. Maybe he’d see other people, a town, and know which direction to head in.
A few fat snowflakes landed on his face and he stood, looking at his too-short pants. His clothes barely fit him anymore, and his toes were curled uncomfortably at the end of his broken boots. He wondered what he would do if he hadn’t found his way out of there, or if his baka still hadn’t found him by the time he outgrew them all the way. Thoughts of his baka still caused a twist of sadness, but when he tried to remember exactly what she looked like, her face was fading. And he couldn’t hear her voice in his head anymore the way he had at first, when he’d sworn she was scolding him for thinking about giving up, or when he needed to do something he didn’t want to do like skin a rabbit or eat its raw, warm meat. “Do it anyway,” she would have said. “You strong boy.”
Jak couldn’t remember the last time he’d cried. Crying didn’t help anything, didn’t make surviving easier. His tears froze on his face, making him even colder than he’d been before, making him sleepy and useless.
Pup stopped walking beside him, lowering his head and growling softly the way he did when there was another animal close by. Jak stopped, listening for the crunch of tiny feet or the flutter of wings, but he didn’t hear anything. “There’s nothing there, Pup.” But a shiver went down Jak’s spine, and he thought about turning back the way they’d come. He knew the land behind them, knew it well, knew every berry bush and rock cave, every wading pool, and open meadow. But this . . . this was a strange place, new and different, and even Pup seemed to think they were in the middle of a mistake.
Something moved in the grass to Jak’s left and he startled, but Pup took off after whatever it was and Jak sighed with relief. Bring us back something good for lunch, Pup, he thought hopefully, his stomach growling. He’d already eaten the pocketful of berries he’d brought with them and his body was telling him—loudly—it wanted more.
It always wanted more.
There was a thin patch of trees in front of him, light spreading through from the other side, and he hoped there was a wide-open space that got enough sun that he could warm himself for a few minutes while he waited for Pup.
But when he stepped through the brush, he came up short, his mouth falling open.
A house? A house!
And there was smoke coming from the chimney. Jak ran to it, almost slipping in his hurry to get there. He was safe! He wanted to yell with joy, his chest suddenly too full to breathe. A person! Someone to help him!
He banged on the door, a small cry of relief falling from his lips. Rescued. I’m going to be rescued. His thoughts were already tumbling all over themselves—a river of happiness flowing quickly over uneven stones, bouncing, splashing—about the stories he’d tell about how he’d survived, about how—
The door opened and a man stood there, staring down at him. He gave Jak a strange kind of smile, but Jak was too relieved to care about that. “You found it. Then it’s yours. You’ve earned it.”
Jak shook his head. He didn’t know what the man meant. He had to make him understand so he’d call his baka and Jak could go home. “Hi, Mister, I’m lost.” He swallowed, trying hard to slow his words, to think of the right ones to use. Something bad happened to me. Someone tried to kill me.
“Come in,” the man said, standing back and holding the door open. “You’re cold and it’s warm in here.”
Jak stepped through the door into the warm room, another sob of relief clawing up his throat. He swallowed it down, doing his best to stay calm so he could explain to the man what had happened to him. To the other three boys who must be skeletons under the snow by now. Their families needed to kn
ow. Jak could tell them.
“What’s your name?” the man asked.
“Jak. I need to—”
“She named you Jak? All right then.” All right then? And . . . she? Jak was suddenly confused, scared. He took a step back.
“Do you know my baka?”
The man paused. “No. By she, I meant your mother. Sorry for my assumption.”