Rachel Hawkins - Grim

“Ignore them,” I’d tell him under my breath, even as the older kids would start in. “Wh-wh-what’s u-u-up, H-Hans-s-sen? G-g-g-ot your s-s-s-sister to p-p-protect you?”

I’d squeeze his hand in mine, wishing I was big enough to bash their teeth in. But I was in only the second grade, and they were sixth graders. That was the longest year of my life, and I felt sick nearly every single day when we’d have to leave for school. I didn’t miss a day that year, even when I had the flu and had to drag myself out of bed, just so Hansen didn’t have to go by himself.

Because no matter how much I’d picked on my brother, I’d have been damned if I’d let anyone else hurt him.

When those kids graduated up to junior high and switched to another bus, I was finally able to breathe again, and Hansen’s stutter had finally started to ease.

“Sorry,” I mutter now, because he’s right. And because it’s not his fault we’re lost, and because I’d rather be with him than be out here all by myself. “I’m just...” I falter for an excuse. “Hungry. And tired, I guess.”

It’s enough, and Hansen grins. That’s the thing about younger brothers—they’re pushovers. “Maybe we can split a candy bar or something,” I offer, securing our truce.

He pulls a Snickers bar from his bag, crumples the wrapper and tosses it on the ground, leaving it behind like the rest of our trash, an un-eco-friendly trail for anyone who might be interested in finding us. As if.

The sugar high keeps us going for a while longer, but it’s been too long since we’ve had a real meal, and I feel shaky, unsteady. Plus, it’s cold. Who camps this close to winter, anyway? My toes are getting numb in my shoes, and my smoker’s lungs are burning. We’ve been walking for what feels like miles, but I really have no idea, since I don’t know how to measure miles. I’m convinced it’s been at least fifty.

“Do you smell that?” Hansen says, raising his nose to the wind.

I laugh-frown at how ridiculous he looks, all wolfish, like he’s just caught the scent of something and he’s alerting his pack. But then I smell it, and suddenly I freeze, too, sniffing the air. “It...smells like...smoke. Like somebody’s cooking.” I glance at him before I start running, to make sure he’s right behind me, and now it’s not the sugar high that has me moving. I didn’t think anything could make me ignore the blisters on my feet or the pounding in my head, but apparently all I needed was a little hope.

Branches whip at me, sticking and pulling and stabbing as I tear through them. The smoky smell gets stronger, so I know we’re going in the right direction. I pray it really is food, and that I’m not leading my brother toward some sort of massive, raging forest fire. But I don’t see any signs of one, at least not the signs I know to look for, the ones from Bambi —cartoon animals running toward us, trying to flee the fire to escape with their lives. So we keep moving toward it.

“I see it,” Hansen whispers exuberantly, pulling me to a stop. He reaches over my shoulder and I follow his hand to see what he’s pointing at. Tendrils of black smolder up from just past a stand of trees blocking our view. “There,” he says. “You see?”

I nod. I do see. And I smell it, certain now that someone is cooking something, as that seared aroma reaches out to us. Beckoning us.

I pause for only a second as I wonder about who lives there, all the way out here in the woods. But when my mouth waters, all my second thoughts are vanquished, and I grab Hansen’s hand and drag him out of this last stand of trees toward our salvation. I think, Take that, you bitch. We’ve done it. We’ve saved ourselves!

It’s a cabin, we realize as we clear the trees, and the smoke is coming from the chimney.

A remote cabin in the middle of the woods, and it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever laid my (still twitching) eyes on. That, and the shiny new Forest Service truck parked out in front.

So not only did we find us a cabin, but a park ranger to boot! I can’t wait to retell this story when we get back home and go to the police to tell them what she did to us. I can’t wait to see the step-bitch’s face when she realizes her plan was a miserable failure because she left us within spitting distance of a forest ranger who saved our lives. Nice plan!

“Go ahead, knock.” I push Hansen ahead of me on the tidy stone path lined with little purple flowers.

“You knock.” It annoys me that his whine-voice is back.

I exhale loudly, but I’m in no mood to argue. “Fine. Whatever. I’ll do it.” I stomp to the door and square my shoulders. We’ve already made it this far—what difference does it make who knocks?

After I do, and then do it again, we stand there forever. I start to wonder if anyone’s really in there at all. I guess the fire could’ve been left burning in the fireplace, and that mouthwatering food smell could be remnants of something cooked earlier, still lingering in the air. My saliva glands are on overtime.

I flinch when the door finally opens, and I stumble backward into Hansen, who jumps, too. The man on the other side is shrouded in almost total darkness, but I can see enough of him—of his khaki-green forest ranger uniform, anyway, with its logos or patches or whatever they are that makes it official—to feel myself relax. It really is a ranger living here.

I can almost hear the bitch’s temper tantrum when she realizes her inheritance-for-one just got redivided.

“Can I help you?” The man inside opens the door wider, and that heavenly smell wafts out to meet us. He takes a step onto the porch, pulling the door closed behind him and cutting us off from what I’m now considering my dinner.

“We, um, we’re...”

“Lost,” I state when Hansen fumbles for an explanation. “We were camping and we got lost. We were hoping you could help us.” I raise my eyebrows at his uniform meaningfully. “Maybe let us call someone so we can get a ride.”

The ranger is basketball-player tall, and lean. But he’s white as white gets, and most good players...well, they aren’t.

Besides, he’s old. At least forty, maybe even forty-five.

His thick black brows furrow at us. “Where you kids camping?”

“Dunno,” Hansen answers, finally able to speak again. “We were with our parents—our dad and our stepmom—” I elbow him. No need to tell our life story, I say with my nudge.

“We got separated. I’m sure they’re awful worried,” I add. “It’d be great if...if we could use your phone to let them know we’re okay.”

He looks beyond us, scanning the woods we’ve just come from, then his gaze moves from me to Hansen and back to me again. I smile my most sincere smile, infusing it with as much trust me as I can manage. He smiles back.

“Got no phone,” he explains. “Besides, I got dinner ready in the oven. You kids can wait out here if you want.” He shrugs then, his lips turning down in an afterthought. “Or you’re welcome to come in for some supper. Then I can take you on up to the ranger’s station. There’s a phone there, and a radio, too. We’ll be able to reach someone for you.”

I turn to Hansen, gloating with my grin. Food and a ride to a phone? Am I a good sister or what?

We both nod, and the man opens his door so we can eagerly follow him inside. The cabin is dark and I immediately realize the reason: there’s no electricity. I see a couple candles burning here and there, but the only real source of light is coming from a fireplace somewhere in the next room. I can see the light bouncing over the wooden floorboards, leaping and wavering.

“What’re your names?” the man asks as he leads us toward the fire.