When I crawl out of the tent, I’m hit by humid heat and the buzz of a hundred mosquitoes hovering over the ground. I don’t see River, just the black Porsche with the scratch, still parked in a hikers’ parking area.
I look around curiously. There are tall conifers everywhere, and the sweet smell of pine fills the air.
I stroll toward the road to find out where we are when River suddenly emerges from the thicket, barefoot with his jeans rolled up. He’s wearing the same clothes as yesterday, and his chin-length hair is messy and sticking up like the Demons ’N Saints singer.
“Tonight, we’re going to a motel so we can at least take a shower.” He ruffles his hair, looking like a sexy movie star. Way too attractive. Way too wild. Way too masculine.
I nod with a feeling of unease in my stomach, unable to take my eyes off his eyes.
“Have you eaten breakfast yet?”
I ate two bites of a cookie but drank all of the iced coffee. When I nod again, he waves me over. “I want to show you something. Follow me!” And of course, I do as he says. Just like when I threw my bag off Old Sheriff yesterday, I have no idea why I listen now.
Why did he even involve himself with me? With me, the silent, boring Kansas Montgomery? The Kensington freak?
I don’t have time to think about it because River winds his way through the undergrowth. I have trouble keeping up because the stones and fallen branches prick my bare soles. River doesn’t seem to mind. Every now and then, he intentionally brushes against tree bark and slides the pine branches gently through his fingers.
At some point, he hops over a few roots and lands cleverly on a rope that I only see when I reach him. That’s why he’s barefoot and has his jeans rolled halfway up his calves.
“This is a slackline, a beginner’s line.” Nimble-footed, he walks a few steps without faltering.
“I want you to try it.” The line is about thirty feet long, stretched between two pine trees and made of some elastic material that’s about two inches wide.
I point to myself in disbelief when he turns around, grins defiantly, and lights a cigarette while standing on the line.
I shake my head.That’s not for me, I type, holding the cell phone under his nose.
As I walk a few feet next to the slackline, only one question circles in my mind:Who are you, River McFarley?You save girls and look broken yourself. You smoke and traverse lines?
I don’t know anything about you!I write now and hold out my phone to him.
He sighs. “Okay, once more!” On the line, he bows mockingly. “Let me introduce myself. I am River McFarley, humanitarian and misanthrope, actually a real misanthrope. A fool but an enlightened one. Longing for death and loving life, desperate and hopeful.”
I type,Are you a paradox?
“I’m afraid so.”
Can you actually be serious? Who are you?
“You’ll find out! We have about three months.”
Does it make sense to get to know someone if you’re planning to jump off a rock in Yosemite in three months?
“No!” He grins crookedly, something I’m already familiar with. “Then again, what makes sense?”
Are you an axe murderer?
“Would you feel better if I said no?”
Yes.
“Okay, then, no, I’m not an axe murderer.”
Would you have said yes if you were one?
“Of course not.”
Did you escape from somewhere?A psychiatric ward, for example? After all, he was also on the bridge.
