The World Without Flags

I’ve decided that sometimes thinking isn’t the best way to handle a situation. Sometimes you just have to deal with what is right in front of you. You have to shut off your mind and focus. I can’t think about what I’m going to do later when Pest turns or when he cracks or if he just dies. There’s no use in thinking about it. Whatever happens, I’ll deal with it then. If I worry too much about the future, I’ll break down.

After I clean his wounds, I drag Pest’s backpack over near the fire and begin to rummage through it. I find a shirt and put it in the boiling water. I bring the water to a boil again and then take out the shirt while it’s still steaming and hang it from a branch. After a few minutes, when it’s cooled enough, I take it down, wring it out as dry as I can, and then begin to reduce it to long strips. I wrap up Pest’s arm as best as I can, and then I sit back. I watch the flames. I listen to Queen out in the woods, pacing, whining. I look at the gun that used to be Eric’s, still is, I guess. Soon I will have to pick it up and load it and get ready because I might have to do it. I might have to shoot him. If he cracks.

But I can’t get myself to do it. I look over at Pest, his round face surrounded by dark curls, his eyes closed almost serenely. He stepped in front of that pig to save me. He put himself in danger to keep me safe, and now he’s suffering from it. I study his face and I’m suddenly struck by it. I feel myself go rigid with the force of it. Why? Why would he do that? He said he owes a lot to Eric, but what does he owe me? I’ve never treated him very well. Actually, I think I’ve treated him very badly. But that didn’t seem to matter to him. Why would he risk his life for me?

“No one asked you to,” I tell him out loud. And then I blush because it’s a mean thing to say to the person who just saved you, even if he is unconscious. I don’t know why I’m so mean to him. I don’t know why I’ve always distrusted him and thought he was a creep. Looking back on it, I can’t think of a single cruel thing he’s ever done to me, except maybe speaking in Spanish. And now it seems he’s sacrificed himself just to keep me safe. Just for a pair of boots for Eric.

I see that I’m crying again. I feel so lonely. So confused. So tired.

I wipe my face. “All right,” I tell myself. “Enough of that.” I sniff wetly. “Seriously, though. Enough.”

I go back to Pest’s backpack and begin to look through it. We have to eat, and, besides, I need to know what my resources are. I need to do a little inventory, so I begin pulling out everything: socks, shirts, an extra pair of pants, a pair of swimming shorts, two different swiss army knives, a little plastic bag of hooks, a spool of fishing line, a hunting knife, a compass, another pair of socks, that’s good, a plastic He-Man, okay, that’s random, a dog-eared copy of Dune: Messiah, nice, sunglasses, binoculars, a pair of heavy duty scissors, a matchbox filled with razor blades, good one, a bundle of green, nylon string, a cigar box filled with oh, good idea, aspirin, cold medicine, a little packet of sewing needles, some other pills that I don’t recognize, and what’s this?

I stop.

It’s my drawing case.

I sit back and open it. All my drawing materials there surrounding a pad of white paper.

I begin to tremble and then look over to Pest. He brought this for me.

I try not to cry. I really try.

I shut the case gently and close the little, brass latch.

I can’t afford these feelings right now. I blink away the tears and put the case down gently on the ground. Then I go back to inventory.

There’s nothing left in the main compartment of the backpack. When I search the other pockets, I find a little notebook in a plastic bag and a leather wallet. I know these are personal, but I open them up anyway. Maybe I shouldn’t. I tell myself I shouldn’t, but even while I’m thinking it, I’m still doing it. I flip through the notebook and stop randomly. It says, “The winter days are the worse. The cold bites like an angry dog. I get tired of the people. I get tired of seeing them every day and having the same, inane conversations. If one more person says cold enough for ya, I’m going to kill them with my bare hands.” I flip again and stop to read: “…still can trust some people. I didn’t think it was true, but Eric has shown me it can still be like this. I have to add this to the list of things I owe him. I don’t have much faith in this world, but all I have left, all I’ve been able to keep, it’s thanks to him.” I want to read more, but finally the voice telling me to stop wins over and I close the diary. I put it back in its plastic envelope even though I am burning with desire to read the whole thing.

I open the wallet and search through it. When I read the card, I look at Pest in astonishment. I can hardly sleep that night, thinking about it, disbelieving my own eyes.

110