“Stay behind me,” he whispers.
I can hear the rest of the group debating whether to follow, and they are soon behind us, making as much noise as the mystery interloper.
The sound of our footsteps creeping toward the tents is overloud in my ears. Twigs break. Leaves crunch. We head around a tree that marks the outer edge of the campsite. Our tents are all spread apart, some of them closer to the river, some closer to the woods. The first one is Lennon’s. Mine is just to the left, near a big boulder. We creep between the two tents, watching each step. I hear noise, but the dull roar of the waterfall is confusing my brain. I frantically look around, trying to spot danger, when Lennon blindly reaches back a hand to halt me.
My heart slams against my rib cage. Then I spot it near the river.
Several yards ahead, the navy-blue silhouettes of Reagan and Brett’s tents stand in the moonlight, their dome shapes like igloos rising from the dark riverbank. One of those tents doesn’t look right. It’s misshapen. A giant, half-deflated soccer ball. And when Lennon’s headlamp shines over it, an enormous dark shape turns around to face the light.
13
* * *
Black bear.
Big black bear.
Big black bear tearing up Brett’s tent.
The group catches up to us as shock winds through me. Reagan runs into my back, and I nearly topple over. Summer makes a terrified sound.
“Oh, Jesus,” Brett whispers, spotting the bear. “Oh Jesus, oh Jesus!”
My mind empties. Every nerve in my body sings.
As if he can hear my panicked thoughts, the bear lifts his head to sniff the air. His small eyes glow chartreuse in Lennon’s headlamp, reflecting the light.
“Don’t move,” Lennon says over his shoulder. “Don’t run. He might chase you.”
What the hell are we supposed to do, then? The wind blows the bear’s musky scent in our direction, and my feet want to flee, despite Lennon’s warning.
We all stand silently. Staring. The bear stares back. He sniffs the air again, and a huge pink tongue licks the side of his muzzle. He’s curious about us, and completely unafraid. In fact, whatever he smells in the air has made him brave. He steps out of Brett’s tent, paw ripping the fabric as his leg swings around.
He’s going to charge us.
We’re going to die. If I was scared during Lennon’s story, I’m petrified now. I inhale a shaky breath. I really wish Andromeda were here. She would bark this bear into submission.
Or she’d tuck tail and run, which is exactly what I want to do.
“Hey!” Lennon shouts in a booming voice that makes me jump. “Get the hell out of here! Get out!” He’s waving his hands over his head as if he’s dressed up like a vampire on Halloween and trying to scare little kids. Only, he sounds absolutely furious. And because his big voice is so deep, it carries over the river and bounces back in a thundering echo.
The bear is now paying attention. He pauses midstep, one enormous paw in the air, and his head stills.
Lennon lunges forward—just one long stride. But he bellows once more as he does it, and images of him stupidly throwing himself at the bear flash behind my eyes. Blood. Screaming. Horror. I see it all unfolding, and I’m too terrified to do anything to stop it.
“I said, get out!” Lennon shouts, clapping his hands loudly several times. He quickly scoops something off the ground and throws it at the bear. A rock? I can’t tell. But it hits the bear on the nose.
WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT?
The bear shakes off the projectile. My body prepares to flee. And then—
His big, furry body slowly turns around. The bear shambles away, crushing the tent beneath him in two steps.
Lennon claps again and starts walking toward it, slowly, casually. Shouting as if he’s trying to get a horse to gallop. And then the bear picks up speed and runs into the dark woods.
Gone.
I stare at the edge of the forest until my eyes sting. Is it really gone? Or is he faking us out, only to turn around and race toward us on his hind legs? Wait, do black bears stand on their hind legs? Or is it just grizzly bears? I don’t know. Why don’t I know?
“It’s okay now,” Lennon is saying. His hand is shockingly warm and firm on my neck. “Hey, it’s okay. He’s gone.”
I glance at him, dazed. It takes me several moments to find my voice, and when I do, my tongue is thick in my mouth. “Are you sure?”
“Pretty sure,” Lennon says, glancing over his shoulder at the woods. “Listen. You can hear it retreating. Those are pinecones making all the noise under his feet.”
I barely hear anything. Which is good. I don’t want to hear bear feet making noise.
“Holy shit, that was intense,” Kendrick says. “He’s really gone?”
“For now,” Lennon says.
“What do you mean?” Reagan asks. “Will he come back?”
Lennon shines his headlamp on the destroyed tent. “If he’s after something, maybe. Whose tent is that?”
“Pretty sure it’s Brett’s,” Summer says, flicking on a handheld flashlight.
She’s right. Reagan and Brett both chose tent spots that were next to the river.
Lennon grumbles under his breath and cautiously walks toward the fallen tent as we follow to inspect the damage. I suspect it’s pretty bad, but when Lennon picks up one side of the nylon, I now see that it’s irreparable. This is no tear. A gaping hole extends down the length of the one-man tent. Lennon crouches and peers beneath the flap of fabric. “Are you kidding me?”
“What’s wrong?” I say.
Lennon holds up the remains of a package of store-bought chocolate chip cookies. Crumbs fall. The whole thing’s ripped wide open. It’s not the only thing. When Summer shines her flashlight on the tent’s floor, she illuminates pouches of tuna. Candy. Pretzels.
Brett’s entire food stash.
It’s spilling out from an open bear canister—one that Lennon forced him to get. The lid is several feet away, buried under the food rubble.
“The canisters aren’t even supposed to be inside our tents,” Lennon says. “At the campfire—that’s where they need to be stored. And why is this open?”
“Maybe the bear opened it?” Summer says.
“They can’t be opened by a bear,” Lennon says. “That’s the whole point!”
I look around. “Um, where is Brett?”
“I’m here,” a voice says. Brett’s curly head peeks out from behind a tree, and he puts up a hand to shield his eyes from the dueling lights of Lennon’s headlamp and Summer’s flashlight.
“Did you not put the lid on your food?” Lennon says, suddenly livid.
“Of course I did,” Brett says, surveying the damage with his phone. He’s videoing everything. “Holy crap. That bear really went to town, didn’t he?”
“This isn’t funny,” Lennon says. “And you didn’t put the lid on, or the bear wouldn’t have smelled the food.”
Brett’s eyes tighten. “I said I put it on, dude. The canister was defective.”
“Hmm,” Kendrick says, squinting at the tent. “I don’t know. I mean, it’s a lid and it screws on. How could it be defective?”
“It’s not. He forgot to put it on,” Lennon says.
Brett bristles. “Are you calling me a liar?”
“I don’t know,” Lennon replies. “Are you?”
I can hear the rest of the group debating whether to follow, and they are soon behind us, making as much noise as the mystery interloper.
The sound of our footsteps creeping toward the tents is overloud in my ears. Twigs break. Leaves crunch. We head around a tree that marks the outer edge of the campsite. Our tents are all spread apart, some of them closer to the river, some closer to the woods. The first one is Lennon’s. Mine is just to the left, near a big boulder. We creep between the two tents, watching each step. I hear noise, but the dull roar of the waterfall is confusing my brain. I frantically look around, trying to spot danger, when Lennon blindly reaches back a hand to halt me.
My heart slams against my rib cage. Then I spot it near the river.
Several yards ahead, the navy-blue silhouettes of Reagan and Brett’s tents stand in the moonlight, their dome shapes like igloos rising from the dark riverbank. One of those tents doesn’t look right. It’s misshapen. A giant, half-deflated soccer ball. And when Lennon’s headlamp shines over it, an enormous dark shape turns around to face the light.
13
* * *
Black bear.
Big black bear.
Big black bear tearing up Brett’s tent.
The group catches up to us as shock winds through me. Reagan runs into my back, and I nearly topple over. Summer makes a terrified sound.
“Oh, Jesus,” Brett whispers, spotting the bear. “Oh Jesus, oh Jesus!”
My mind empties. Every nerve in my body sings.
As if he can hear my panicked thoughts, the bear lifts his head to sniff the air. His small eyes glow chartreuse in Lennon’s headlamp, reflecting the light.
“Don’t move,” Lennon says over his shoulder. “Don’t run. He might chase you.”
What the hell are we supposed to do, then? The wind blows the bear’s musky scent in our direction, and my feet want to flee, despite Lennon’s warning.
We all stand silently. Staring. The bear stares back. He sniffs the air again, and a huge pink tongue licks the side of his muzzle. He’s curious about us, and completely unafraid. In fact, whatever he smells in the air has made him brave. He steps out of Brett’s tent, paw ripping the fabric as his leg swings around.
He’s going to charge us.
We’re going to die. If I was scared during Lennon’s story, I’m petrified now. I inhale a shaky breath. I really wish Andromeda were here. She would bark this bear into submission.
Or she’d tuck tail and run, which is exactly what I want to do.
“Hey!” Lennon shouts in a booming voice that makes me jump. “Get the hell out of here! Get out!” He’s waving his hands over his head as if he’s dressed up like a vampire on Halloween and trying to scare little kids. Only, he sounds absolutely furious. And because his big voice is so deep, it carries over the river and bounces back in a thundering echo.
The bear is now paying attention. He pauses midstep, one enormous paw in the air, and his head stills.
Lennon lunges forward—just one long stride. But he bellows once more as he does it, and images of him stupidly throwing himself at the bear flash behind my eyes. Blood. Screaming. Horror. I see it all unfolding, and I’m too terrified to do anything to stop it.
“I said, get out!” Lennon shouts, clapping his hands loudly several times. He quickly scoops something off the ground and throws it at the bear. A rock? I can’t tell. But it hits the bear on the nose.
WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT?
The bear shakes off the projectile. My body prepares to flee. And then—
His big, furry body slowly turns around. The bear shambles away, crushing the tent beneath him in two steps.
Lennon claps again and starts walking toward it, slowly, casually. Shouting as if he’s trying to get a horse to gallop. And then the bear picks up speed and runs into the dark woods.
Gone.
I stare at the edge of the forest until my eyes sting. Is it really gone? Or is he faking us out, only to turn around and race toward us on his hind legs? Wait, do black bears stand on their hind legs? Or is it just grizzly bears? I don’t know. Why don’t I know?
“It’s okay now,” Lennon is saying. His hand is shockingly warm and firm on my neck. “Hey, it’s okay. He’s gone.”
I glance at him, dazed. It takes me several moments to find my voice, and when I do, my tongue is thick in my mouth. “Are you sure?”
“Pretty sure,” Lennon says, glancing over his shoulder at the woods. “Listen. You can hear it retreating. Those are pinecones making all the noise under his feet.”
I barely hear anything. Which is good. I don’t want to hear bear feet making noise.
“Holy shit, that was intense,” Kendrick says. “He’s really gone?”
“For now,” Lennon says.
“What do you mean?” Reagan asks. “Will he come back?”
Lennon shines his headlamp on the destroyed tent. “If he’s after something, maybe. Whose tent is that?”
“Pretty sure it’s Brett’s,” Summer says, flicking on a handheld flashlight.
She’s right. Reagan and Brett both chose tent spots that were next to the river.
Lennon grumbles under his breath and cautiously walks toward the fallen tent as we follow to inspect the damage. I suspect it’s pretty bad, but when Lennon picks up one side of the nylon, I now see that it’s irreparable. This is no tear. A gaping hole extends down the length of the one-man tent. Lennon crouches and peers beneath the flap of fabric. “Are you kidding me?”
“What’s wrong?” I say.
Lennon holds up the remains of a package of store-bought chocolate chip cookies. Crumbs fall. The whole thing’s ripped wide open. It’s not the only thing. When Summer shines her flashlight on the tent’s floor, she illuminates pouches of tuna. Candy. Pretzels.
Brett’s entire food stash.
It’s spilling out from an open bear canister—one that Lennon forced him to get. The lid is several feet away, buried under the food rubble.
“The canisters aren’t even supposed to be inside our tents,” Lennon says. “At the campfire—that’s where they need to be stored. And why is this open?”
“Maybe the bear opened it?” Summer says.
“They can’t be opened by a bear,” Lennon says. “That’s the whole point!”
I look around. “Um, where is Brett?”
“I’m here,” a voice says. Brett’s curly head peeks out from behind a tree, and he puts up a hand to shield his eyes from the dueling lights of Lennon’s headlamp and Summer’s flashlight.
“Did you not put the lid on your food?” Lennon says, suddenly livid.
“Of course I did,” Brett says, surveying the damage with his phone. He’s videoing everything. “Holy crap. That bear really went to town, didn’t he?”
“This isn’t funny,” Lennon says. “And you didn’t put the lid on, or the bear wouldn’t have smelled the food.”
Brett’s eyes tighten. “I said I put it on, dude. The canister was defective.”
“Hmm,” Kendrick says, squinting at the tent. “I don’t know. I mean, it’s a lid and it screws on. How could it be defective?”
“It’s not. He forgot to put it on,” Lennon says.
Brett bristles. “Are you calling me a liar?”
“I don’t know,” Lennon replies. “Are you?”
