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

I pack sand under his ankle so it’s elevated, then pack sand around it to keep it from moving.

“I know it hurts, buddy,” I say, grabbing his hand and squeezing it. “I have to go grab some stuff. I’ll be back as quick as I can.”

His teeth gritted together, he gives me a soft nod.

It is 3:22 a.m.

Daylight is still twenty minutes away, but I can see well enough in the pre-twilight to navigate my way through the brush. It takes me ten minutes to find the bush that resembles the kind Opik used to make Lassie’s bandage.

I rip out two entire fronds, then I set about finding two decent sized sticks.

I make it back to Opik and the sandbar at 3:43 a.m.

He is still crying.

Still screaming.

I take the two sticks I found — a foot long and an inch thick — and set them on either side of Opik’s ankle. I untie his shoe and slide out his ghastly swollen ankle. He thrashes and I tell him, “I’m sorry.”

I slip out one of the strings from his shoe, then make a splint around his ankle with the two sticks. The finished product isn’t pretty, but it will keep his ankle from moving from side to side.

Next, I dip the leaves in the river and crush them in my hand until I have a thick green paste.

I pull the T-shirt from Opik’s side, then wash away the blood with a second strip of T-shirt.

The sun is up and I can’t help but cringe at the two-inch, jagged cut halfway down his ribs. I gently cover the wound in green sludge. Opik’s body flexes in pain. His screams elevate two octaves at each touch.

At 3:55 a.m., I curl up next to him, pulling his head into the crook of my shoulder and begin stroking his head.

“It’s gonna be okay, buddy. I’ve got you.”

A couple minutes later, he stops crying.

:15

July 7th

Sunrise 3:47 a.m.

The sun and the mosquitos have both attacked my flesh and I pant wildly as I push myself up on the sand. I crawl to where Opik lies. His foot looks like a snake trying to digest a grapefruit. If it looks anything like my ankle did the day after I broke it, it is a purplish black, not too different than the summer sky overhead.

There are crawl marks on the sand leading to the brush, and I deduce that at some point over the course of the past twenty-three hours, Opik needed to go to the bathroom. Instead of crawling a couple feet away and relieving himself on the sandbar, he crawled fifty feet to the edge of the brush. I can only imagine the amount of agony this pilgrimage caused him.