Read Online Lost in the River of Grass by Ginny Rorby - Free Book Online

of the pack and takes out the camera and the binoculars. Water pours out of the binoculars, but the camera is all right in its baggie.
    â€œMight as well leave these here.”
    Before I can stop him he pitches the binoculars toward the cabin. They disappear into the thick weeds. I grab the camera and hug it to my chest. “My dad will kill me if anything happens to this.”
    â€œI’ll betcha it will never occur to him to ask what happened to either of them by the time he sees you again.” Andy drives the blade of the butcher knife into the instep of one of my boots.
    I grab the other one and hug it to my chest. “What are you doing?”
    â€œGiving ’em drain holes.” He twists the knife, trying to cut out a chunk, but the blade is too wide.
    I feel around in the lower portion of the backpack and hand him my brother’s Swiss Army knife. “This thing has scissors, I think.”
    There are a dozen blades and tools to choose from. “This really
is
a cool knife.” He turns it over in his hand.
    Andy first tries the little saw, then the scissors, neither of which can cut through the rubber. He finally chooses one of the smaller blades and finishes cutting two thumb-sized squares in the insteps. He dips the first boot and holds it up. Water gushes out the holes.
    When he finishes the other boot, I pull them on. They are cold, clammy, and squishy inside. I step off the dock and stand beside him on the deck of the airboat. Water
    fills them again, and having the holes doesn’t help at all. “This isn’t going to work.”
    â€œGive ’em to me.” Andy opens the saw-blade of the knife.
    â€œWhat are you going to do with that?” I hitch myself onto the dock.
    â€œYou won’t be able to put one foot in front of the other unless I get the water to run out as quickly as it comes in.”
    â€œWait. Don’t do that until we see if the water is over the tops when we get out of here.”
    â€œHow are you going to get from here to there?”
    â€œSwim.”
    He shrugs, then pulls himself out of the water to sit on the dock beside me. He takes off his tennis shoes and cuts holes in them, too. Before closing the knife, he stabs a small drain hole in the bottom of my backpack, puts the Spam in the lower half, the camera and the knife in the top half, and zips it closed.
    It’s been breezy for most of the morning, but it dies suddenly. A few minutes later, the sun disappears behind the southern wall of trees. Mosquitoes, which like shade and still air, appear instantly and seem to come to a boil around us.
    I fan my face and squash them against my arms and legs, leaving bloody little streaks. “The bug spray’s in the pack.”
    â€œYou’ll be in the water in a second.”
    â€œPlease. I can’t stand the sound of them.”
    â€œSpraying won’t stop that.” He puts my pack on again.
    â€œLet’s hurry then. Can I put my boots in the pack until we get out of here?”
    He turns to let me unzip the bottom part. I stuff my boots inside and zip it as closed as it will go with the tops sticking out.
    I slide off the dock and tread water like a frog with my legs splayed to keep from touching the bottom with my bare feet. I kick so hard that I don’t sink above my waist.
    Andy goes over the side of the boat and sinks to his armpits in the mud. Using his arms like water wings, he begins to plow through the water. I do the breaststroke so close behind him I keep bumping into his back. We’ve only gone a few yards when I slow and glance back to see if the gator has stayed put. It isn’t there. My heart begins to ricochet inside my chest. “The gator’s gone.” Panic chokes off my breath. I swim around Andy and into the channel. The duckling, which has been swimming just off my right shoulder, peeps frantically and follows me.
    I only get about a dozen feet ahead of him when my leg hits