L Akers - Fight Like a Man

Come home to me soon, baby girl.

Graysie’s chin quivered as she held her hand over her mouth. Tears pricked at her eyes until finally, she left them flow. She rocked back and forth and squeezed her eyes shut.

She wanted her dad. This letter from him made it all too real. She was truly in deep shit. She couldn’t do this alone. She didn’t know how to read a compass. She dug in the bag and found the small army-green pouch. She opened it to find a folded instruction manual atop compass. Quickly, she scanned the instructions. It didn’t make a lick of sense to her. She needed help.

The backpack was heavy. There was no way she could carry it all the way home, if she had to walk. Plus, she was sure her dad hadn’t packed her any clothes. She’d need at least one spare set. She folded up the letter and put it back in the envelope, holding it up to her nose.

She couldn’t smell him, but the memory of his clean scent still filled her nose.

Squeezing her eyes shut, she held the letter to her heart. Ivory soap and Old Spice. She teased him about the Old Spice, telling him it was for old men, but secretly she loved his old soul. He was forty years old this year. It seemed ancient to her, but a lot of her friends’ dads were much older.

She dumped everything out on the bed, and then opened all the zippers and compartments, throwing everything into one big pile. Then she sorted into three groups: sanitation, survival and sustenance.

In the sanitation pile, she put a plastic baggie of too-little folded toilet paper— too stingy on the tp, Dad —and a small clear bag that she could see through. It contained a toothbrush and toothpaste, Dove soap disposable washcloths, and a small bottle of hand sanitizer. A tiny bottle labeled bleach, and a ShawWow towel also went into that pile. And lastly, a Diva Cup. Ewww . So maybe he wasn’t as squeamish about girl-stuff as she thought he was. She giggled as she thought about him handling it. Although still new in the box, he’d probably picked it up with gloves on.

In the sustenance pile, she placed a compact Rocket Stove. It was in a tiny orange case not much bigger than a pack of smokes. The picture on the front showed someone feeding pine cones and sticks into it. Super cool, since it wasn’t necessary to carry fuel. Smart, Dad .

She sorted a blue over-sized camp cup, a fork/spoon combo attached to the top of a small mess kit, a water bottle/filter combo, a canteen, water purification tablets, and food: two vacuum-sucked pouches of what looked like Stove Top Stuffing. Written on the side was a note: Add boiling water. There was also beef jerky, two envelopes of Instant Lipton Cup-a-Soup Chicken & Rice, a small jar of peanut butter with honey, two energy bars and several baggies of GORP—good ‘ole fashioned raisins and peanuts—and a can of tuna. The tuna had a note folded and taped to the bottom. It said: “Tuna Torch: Can burn up to 3 hours for light, and then be eaten. Unfold for instructions.” A tuna-scented candle? That ought to smell nice. Not .

She smirked and tossed it into the pile.

Into the survival pile she placed the folded map, an emergency Life-Straw, a small first aid kit, a folded Mylar blanket, a bundle of paracord, and a small mirror—Good. I can use that. Also, a pack of three Bic lighters, a small fishing kit in a tin Altoids box, an Army Swiss knife/multi-tool thingy, a poncho, bug deterrent wipes, water purification tablets, duct tape wrapped around a pencil, a bundle of wire, a hand-crank flashlight, and a bottle of Advil.

She was left with a cluster of zip ties—what the heck am I supposed to do with those? —a rolled-up hat with a brim, a stack of five surgical masks marked N95, several sets of latex gloves, goggles, a pile of small assorted clips, a bandana, and two brown medicine bottles.

She popped open the top of one of the medicine bottles to find cotton balls stuffed inside that smelled of petroleum jelly. She shoved the lid back and looked at the side of the bottle. In black sharpie her father had written in tiny letters: Use 1 to light fire. The other bottle held waterproof matches. She threw them into the survival pile.

She put aside the face masks and gloves. She wouldn’t be needing those.

Digging deeper, to the very bottom, she found a large K-Bar U.S. Marine knife in a sheath and two pairs of good walking socks.

Graysie raised her eyebrows. It was a lot of stuff.

The hat looked slightly too big. She flipped it over to try it on and found another note taped to the inside.

“If you’re walking, put up that hair! Try not to look like a girl. If someone messes with you, fight like a man.”

She ripped the note off the hat, finding a hair-tie and some hair pins underneath.

She stuffed everything back in and grabbed a pair of jeans and two T-shirts. She twisted the clothes into tight rolls and crammed them in the top of the bag. Now to get some help figuring out this stupid compass.

She shoved the backpack under the bed and went in search of a boy scout.

GRAYSON TILTED his head up at the mountain of Puck. “Come on, son. What’re you waiting for? Jump down here.”

Puck stood balanced on the bumper of the truck, staring down at Ozzie, and rubbing his head with both hands. He mumbled incoherently and then shook his hands in the air. Tugging unnecessarily at his too-big pants, he flashed his ankles again as he stalled.

“What’s the matter? I told ya, he won’t bite.”

Instead of jumping, Puck turned around and slowly climbed down, peeking over his shoulder at Ozzie in fear. When he stepped off into the gravel, Ozzie tucked his head and shoulders down with his butt wiggling up in the air and whined, asking for Puck’s attention.

“Don’t mind him. He’s doing his doggie yoga,” Grayson joked.

Puck giggled and hiked his pants up again. He bent down and hesitantly pet the dog, biting his lip in concentration. Soon, they were fast friends, with Puck throwing a stick and Ozzie fetching it while Puck chortled like a schoolboy with a very bad cold.

It was as though Grayson ceased to exist.

He left them to it and went in to get the burgers he had thawing on the counter. Regardless of his bizarre guest, it would be nice to not eat alone for the first time in days.

Puck stared down at his plate while Grayson tucked into his own food.

Oh, he’s praying. Grayson felt bad for starting too soon. While he was a Christian—or at least he considered himself one; he did believe in God after all—he didn’t often pray. Maybe he should. A small prayer for his family to finally show up safe and sound couldn’t hurt.

He put his burger down and lowered his own head, and while waiting respectfully for Puck to finish, he tried to formulate some semblance of a prayer of his own. Giving up, he silently spoke to The Big Guy: Just bring ‘em home soon, God.

A full minute passed and Grayson took a peek. Puck wasn’t praying; he was staring at his food. A slow tear trailed down his cheek.

Awkward.

The kid was probably missing his mother. Grayson cleared his throat. “What’s up, Puck?”

“I don’t like lettuce. Jenny likes lettuce.”

Oh for crying out loud.

Out of habit, Grayson had dressed Puck’s burger the same way he did for his daughter, Graysie: loaded.

He sighed and stood up, pulled the top bun off the burger and snatched the lettuce off and then dropped the top back onto it and sat down. “There. No lettuce. Now eat.”