Jeff Hirsch: The Darkest Path

He pocketed the inhaler, then went over everything he had in his pack and zipped it closed. I expected him to head for the door, but he stood looking out the window at the back garden. With little else to do over the last month, James and I had cleaned it up the best we could. The grass was cut and the weeds had been pushed back so the flowers had a little room to breathe. We even managed to get the hammocks repaired and rehung, which naturally led to a discussion about sleeping in them instead of our cramped bedroom. In the end, we decided that nostalgia was a thing you could take way too far.

“You don’t have to do this,” I said.

“I know.” James settled the pack onto his shoulders. “When you find them…”

“I’ll explain,” I said. “It’ll be all the ammo I need to finally be declared the good son.”

I followed James through the house and out into the front yard. He stood at the gate, looking across the street at sidewalks and trees and empty houses before pushing it open and stepping through. He looked back at me, his brown hair light in the morning sun as it rose. He waved one last time, then he turned to go.

Even though I had been preparing myself for weeks, standing there in the moment of James’s leaving was overwhelming. Every part of me wanted to follow him, but I held myself steady, eyes shut, and listened as he climbed the hill to the main road. His footsteps slowly faded away. After he was gone, there was a long silence. The emptiness around me seemed impossibly vast. I told myself that he’d always be out there, like a jewel in a box, or a heart beating in the darkness. No matter what happened I’d be able to turn south and for a moment feel like we were together again.

I drifted back through the empty house, my lone footsteps echoing off the bare walls. I moved from room to room, gathering up anything I thought I could use — matches, food, a half-dull kitchen knife — then pulled a crumpled road map out of my pocket.

Wellesley Island was circled in red ink, a speck of land on the Canadian border. I ran a finger along the route, feeling the lonely grind of the miles there and then all the ones that would come after. I had no way of knowing how long it would take me to find Mom and Dad, or even if I could. The only thing to do was start, but there was something that held me in place. It was this feeling like I was standing in a half-finished room, or the way a song, shut off before the end, stays inside of you, anxious until it can resolve.

I folded the map and stuffed it in my pocket. There was no sense dwelling on it. I reached for my pack, then remembered that I had traded the clothes the Feds had given me for some of Dad’s shortly after we arrived. I figured I could use the old ones as spares.

I found them in a pile in our room. The shirt was sweated through and full of holes, but the rest was worth taking. I stuffed the jacket into the backpack and then reached across the floor for my old jeans. There was a soft jangle of metal as I pulled them to me.

My heart lost a beat when I heard it. I reached inside and pulled out a thick pink band with a black buckle and a silver tag. I didn’t breathe as I drew the collar across my shaking hands. The collar felt impossibly heavy, as if all of those months and all the hundreds of miles had been compressed into its fibers. Bear . I traced the letters of his name with my fingertip and then held the tag in my hand until the metal grew warm. I could feel the heat of his fur and remembered his summery smell.

I imagined him in a cabin, safe and well fed, and wondered if it was home to him now or if he still thought of me. Did he wonder why I left him even now? And did he lie among the woman and her family, awaiting the day I’d come back for him?

The map rustled as I flattened it out on the floor. I found what I was looking for in a corner of Montana way out on its own. Bull Lake . A dot of a town next to a blue patch of water. I pulled the pen out of my pack and circled it in red.

Looking at both of the marks on the map, Bull Lake and Wellesley Island, I felt something snap into place, like my path had emerged before me, clear and straight.

I left the house with an old song turning in my head, its melody bright but distant. I hummed it out loud as I got into the car and set my pack and Bear’s collar on the seat next to me. I looked down the road and then I started the engine and drove away.

Like with every book, I’d be absolutely nowhere without the peerless agenting of Sara Crowe, and without the fine, fine folks at Scholastic, especially Cassandra Pelham, David Levithan, and Lauren Felsenstein. For early and absolutely essential constructive criticism, thanks to Eliot Schrefer (if you haven’t read Endangered yet, go get it!), Phoebe North (if you haven’t read Starglass yet, go get it!), Ken Weitzman, and Ryan Palmer.

Thanks also to every teacher and librarian who invited me out to their school this past year. One of the best parts of this job is getting out there and meeting the next generation of readers!

Beyond these usual suspects, an awful lot of new folks helped me out on this one. Appropriately enough they largely fall into one of two categories — military folk and animal folk.

As for the military folk, who fielded questions big and small from this hapless civilian, I want to say thanks to Sergeant Major Kevin Spooner, U.S. Army; Specialist Heather Zenzen, U.S. Army Reserves/Minnesota National Guard; and Chief Aviation Electronics Technician Daniel Bramos, U.S. Navy (retired).

On the animal side, thanks to Jeff Hiebert, President of Search and Rescue Dogs of the United States. Also, huge thanks to all the nice folks at Pets Alive in Middletown, NY, for rescuing a little mini pinscher with gigantic ears from the side of a highway in Puerto Rico. If they hadn’t, my wife and I would have missed out on an awful lot of fun this past year and I never would have had the inspiration for Bear. It was pretty awesome to spend a year writing this book with my inspiration cuddled up to me every day.

Talking with these folks got me thinking about how much great work they do and how they can always use a bit of a hand. If you’d like to join me in lending one, I hope you’ll consider making (or pestering your parents until they make) a donation to Pets Alive (www.petsalive.com) or Operation Homefront (www.operationhomefront.net).

Jeff Hirsch is the USA Today bestselling author of The Eleventh Plague and Magisterium . He graduated from the University of California, San Diego, with an MFA in Dramatic Writing and now lives in New York with his wife. Visit him online at www.jeff-hirsch.com.

Copyright © 2013 by Jeff Hirsch

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