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

Taking two more steps forward, I say, “Hey, kid.”

He doesn’t stir.

I take a couple more steps until I hover over him. I watch his chest move up and down three, four, five times, then I lean down on my haunches. I place my hand gingerly on his right shoulder and lightly rock him.

His eyes flutter open.

I wait for him to backpedal in fright, but he doesn’t. He simply stares back at me with almond shaped eyes the color of milk chocolate. He looks at me, then down at where my hand still rests on his shoulder.

I pull it back.

He pushes himself up into a sitting position, ending up cross-legged.

He continues to stare.

“Hi,” I say.

He says something back. It is not hi, hey, or hello. It is not a sound I’ve ever heard.

“Can you speak English?”

A series of weird sounds come from his mouth.

Oh, brother.

I mimic picking something off the ground and putting it in my mouth, then say, “Thank you for the berries.”

He smiles.

His teeth are small, white, and even.

I stand up.

He stands up.

His head comes up to just above my hip.

I walk forward a couple steps, then turn. He hasn’t moved. I say, “Come on, I want to show you something.” Although my words mean nothing to him, my “follow me” gesture translates and he runs forward and falls in step behind me.

Ten seconds later, my feet find the sandbar and I step to the side.

“PUSSI!” he screams.

He runs up to Lassie, whose mouth opens in terror. With his injured leg, he is helpless to move. The boy falls to his knees and begins stroking him.

“Pussi [gibberish][gibberish] pussi [gibberish][gibberish][gibberish] pussi.”

I laugh. I suppose I know one word in Eskimo now.

Lassie resigns himself to his fate, closing his eyes, and embracing the belly rub.

After a long minute, the boy releases Lassie from his clutches.

Lassie flicks his head at the boy.

I know, I know.

More berries.

The small meal of berries brings me back to the world of the living, but only to the point I am now profoundly aware of how hungry I am. “Where can we get more berries?” I ask, augmenting the words with the mimicry of picking fruit, putting it in my mouth, and rubbing my full and satisfied belly.

The small boy nods and points at the hills.

I look at my watch.

It is 3:31 a.m.

Twenty-nine minutes.

I lean down and pick up Lassie and the three of us head into the brush.

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