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Back 3 a.m.
Chapters (67)
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  67. 3:46 a.m.

For the first time, I notice how Lassie is sitting. Back on his haunches, his front right leg curled inward.

I lean down and touch it gingerly.

He whimpers.

“What happened?”

Meow.

“I did it? How did I do it?”

Meow.

“I did not dunk you into the canoe like I was LeBron James.”

Meow.

“Well, I didn’t do it on purpose. Can you move it?”

He wiggles his foot and whines. If it isn’t broken, it’s badly sprained. Either way, he won’t be catching us dinner any time soon.

After raking my nails over my legs for a long thirty seconds, I retrieve my sweatpants from where they are draped over one of the black rocks. They are dry. I pull them on, hoping they will bring itch relief. They don’t. I pull on my socks and shoes, then hobble back to the canoe.

I pick up Lassie.

“We have two options,” I say. “We can hike back to Fairbanks, but I figure we are over a hundred miles away. I can cover four miles a day, five if we can hug the sandbars. So we are looking at close to a month. Or we can hop into Mr. Canoe over there and take our chances on the river. I figure we can travel about the same distance each day. It will be easier, but we will be headed even deeper into the wilderness and we might not come across anything for a thousand miles.”

Meow.

“It’s summer. There are no igloo people.”

Meow.

“I’m not sure, huts or something.”

“We need to get moving,” I say. “What do you think? Land or water?”

On land, I knew what to expect. If we follow the river upstream — east, toward the sunrise — it would eventually lead us back to Fairbanks. Plus, there is always a chance we would run into some “hut people” or a river community en route. Heading downstream — west, in the canoe — there were no guarantees. There could be rapids. The river could be blocked. We would be at the mercy of the water.

Meow.

“Sorry, I vote land.”

Meow.

“Can you walk? Can you steer the canoe?”

Meow.

“Well, then your vote doesn’t count.”

I spend the next five minutes scribbling a message in the sand near the canoe.

Stranded. Headed upstream toward Fairbanks. June 23rd. Henry Bins.

Meow.

“Fine.”

...And Lassie the cat.

I take stock of my assets. One sweatshirt. One pair of sweatpants. One T-shirt. One pair of boxers. Two socks. Two shoes. One stick. One watch. One cat.

“All right,” I say, leaning down and picking up Lassie. “Let’s go.”

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