BooksBarbecue
Back 3 a.m.
Chapters (67)
  1. :01
  2. :02
  3. :03
  4. :04
  5. :05
  6. :06
  7. :07
  8. :08
  9. :09
  10. :10
  11. :11
  12. :12
  13. :13
  14. :14
  15. :15
  16. :16
  17. :17
  18. :01
  19. :02
  20. :03
  21. :04
  22. :05
  23. :06
  24. :07
  25. :08
  26. :09
  27. :10
  28. :11
  29. :12
  30. :13
  31. :01
  32. :02
  33. :03
  34. :04
  35. :05
  36. :06
  37. :07
  38. :08
  39. :09
  40. :10
  41. :11
  42. :12
  43. :13
  44. :14
  45. :15
  46. :16
  47. :00
  48. :01
  49. :02
  50. :03
  51. :04
  52. :05
  53. :06
  54. :07
  55. :08
  56. :09
  57. :10
  58. :11
  59. :12
  60. :13
  61. :14
  62. :15
  63. :16
  64. :17
  65. :18
  66. :19
  67. 3:46 a.m.

I spend the entire hour foraging for berries and find less than a handful. I keep three berries for myself and feed the remaining berries to Opik. He swallows with eyes closed. I dig a hole in the sand and drip water into his mouth. I carry him to the edge of the brush to go to the bathroom. He is only forty pounds, but I am so weak, he feels like forty kilos. I change the wrap on the wound on his side.

I find a large stick and wade into the river. I attempt Opik’s fishing method for twenty minutes, but am unsuccessful.

::::

July 8th

Sunrise 3:51 a.m.

It seems so long ago that I was out on the back deck of the cabin with Ingrid, seeing the sun for the first time. My appreciation then was strictly superficial. Yes, the sun was beautiful. Yes, it turned the black and white photograph that was my life into a living, breathing landscape. Now, after nearly three weeks in the wild, I see it as so much more. Its heat kept me from freezing to death after falling in the river. Its sunlight fed the plants and trees whose offerings kept me alive.

I want to enjoy my last minutes of sunlight — tomorrow the sun won’t make it above the rolling hills before I fall asleep — but I can’t. It is that superficial light which illuminates the angry, virulent infection that has taken hold of the gash in Opik’s side.

I prod the raised red flesh with my fingers.

I fall asleep to the sound of Opik screaming.

::::

July 9th

Sunrise 3:55 a.m.

I smash the rocks together. There is a small spark, but the grass doesn’t catch. I smash them together again. And again. And again. My arms burn. My hands bleed.

I smash the rocks together. And again.

“Come on. Come on.”

A piece of grass catches. I push a small clump of grass on top. This too, catches. A bigger clump. An even bigger one. I set the first twig on the smoldering pile. I blow on the grass. The stick catches.

Two minutes later, I have a small fire. I add as many sticks and as much brush as I can. I need the fire to burn into the daylight. I find two large tree stumps and roll them into the fire.

When I lie down next to Opik to fall asleep, the fire rages.

::::

July 10th

Sunrise 4:00 a.m.

Opik’s forehead is giving off as much heat as the fire that failed to bring us salvation. Neither of us has eaten in days. His normally robust, rounded cheeks have been swallowed by hunger, leaving shallow craters in their place. His breathing is shallow.

I drip water into his mouth with my hand.

“We’re going to make it,” I lie. “We’re going to be just fine, you and me.”