Linked

Twenty-Three : Pine

Morning rises pale and frosty, the air damp and close like cold fingers slipping inside my collar. Corin and I shuffle uphill hand in hand, stooped beneath our backpacks. I try to convince myself I'm only allowing his warm, strong fingers to embrace mine because:

Of our 'super-link'.

It's more comfortable to be touching.

His injuries are healing slowly, clotting into tight scabs threading a rusty row around his navel.

He gasps if we take a stride too large or have to stretch around a giant tree trunk, and if he needs to lean on me, I'm here.

I repeat the excuses like a mantra. But flutters unfurling in my chest and the memory of how soft his forehead felt upon mine refuse to be buried beneath logic. I can hardly stop thinking about it and wondering whether it will happen again tonight, brought on by the blush-concealing cloak of dark, leafy sky. I think about it so much I'm afraid I will forget the reasons why I shouldn't be thinking about it.

I don't need to list those.

The sun is directly above us, peeking through weak clouds and a thinning canopy, when we realise the ground slopes away from us. Our steps become heavier as we decline. At some point this morning we must have passed over the head of the Trifecta and started down the other side. We have been trekking in silence, myself examining surrounding foliage, impressed by the way the dappled sunlight seems to melt various shades of green together like some sort of blended artwork. Corin inspects his shoes. Until he turns his summer-sky gaze on me, reluctantly, and shares an echo of a smile.

"Do you hear that?" He asks, voice like sandpaper. We drank all the water last night and woke thirsty with absolutely nothing we could do about it. In retrospect, a bad idea. I cock my head and listen. The forest is eerily still, no wind whispering through branches. Our muffled footsteps, paused. Chirping birdcall, melodic and bright. And something else. An urgent tinkling, a splattering of mixed musical notes hurrying along their familiar route, over slippery pebbles and around hollow, fallen logs.

"Do you think it's a stream?"

We lunge forward as one, towards the sound, crashing through the undergrowth.

There's a river! An actual, deep, swirling, churning, rushing river! The water turns out to be dark and loud, edged by flat rocks bristled with grey-green moss. My throat burns with longing, an unpleasant coppery flavour. Corin overtakes me, dropping his backpack to the ground. Hopping, he flings one boot aside, then the other. I watch as they bounce across the rocks. His socks follow, peeled off and flopped onto a patch of moss. He grabs the hem of his shirt. Is he insane?

"Don't even think about it!" I shout, marching over and snatching his hands away from his top.

"What?"

"You can't actually be planning to swim in there? It's winter!"

"Freaking hell, Benna, I'm so dehydrated I was seriously considering drinking my own pee. Do you really want me to go there?"

I roll my eyes and swing my backpack to my front. Unzipping it, I pass him an empty water bottle, one of the tiny ones from the supply box buried beneath the persimmon tree. "Don't be such a drama queen. Fill this up - and not with pee."

Corin pokes his tongue at me but takes the bottle gratefully. "Suppose almost getting hypothermia once this week is enough."

"Exactly."

Seriously, boys can be so dumb. As grateful as I am that he is with me, sometimes I find myself hoping that Corin is equally grateful I am with him. But for the moment, I'm just happy he is talking to me like a normal human being again. It gives me hope he's pushed last night's rejection behind other, more important thoughts.