Later, no one would be certain quite how it happened—not even Barbara—but suddenly she was sitting very still, and on her right knee was the half-skinned squirrel, and inside her left thigh was the tip of the small knife she had been using.
Her hand was still holding its hilt. Reflexively, she extracted it in one similarly swift motion, and then said, “I shouldn’t have done that.”
Sure enough: the wound lay dormant for three seconds, as if hesitating, and then from it a small pool of blood surfaced and then spilled.
“I shouldn’t have taken it out,” Barbara said, again. “I should have left it in there.”
Barbara had been wearing shorts, and so her leg was in full view. Rivulets of blood were spilling down the inside of her thigh, splashing onto the soil beneath her.
Some of the other campers backed away, heads in hands; others approached.
“We should tell T.J.,” said Lowell.
“No,” said Barbara, quickly.
“Why not?” said Walter. “She said to. She said the only reason to get her was an emergency.”
“It’s not an emergency,” said Barbara. “I can handle it.”
She looked around. The blood dripping from her leg was making a pat-pat noise on the ground.
“Christopher,” she called. He had run away at the first sight of blood. From his tent, now, he emerged, timid.
“I need my sweatshirt back,” said Barbara. “I’m sorry.”
He stripped it off hastily, ran it to her. With her knife, she severed one sleeve and wrapped it firmly around her leg. The fabric of the sleeve went quickly from white to pink.
For an hour or two, Barbara wore it, going about her business as before, seemingly unperturbed.
They ate squirrel for dinner, each given approximately one bite of meat, which boosted everyone’s morale, even if it did not lessen their hunger.
By late evening, Tracy noticed that Barbara seemed quieter than usual. She had no doubt lost a lot of blood; the sweatshirt sleeve had needed replacement twice with other fabrics.
“Are you all right?” Tracy said.
“I’m fine,” said Barbara.
But her face was very pale. Tracy looked at her one beat too long.
“What?” Barbara said.
Behind her, Tracy could feel the gazes of the other campers turning in their direction. The campsite was silent.
“We have to tell T.J.,” said Lowell. He looked down at Barbara, inspecting her face. “I’m serious. You’ve lost too much blood. It’s not safe.”
“I’m fine,” Barbara said again, weakly.
But Lowell wouldn’t hear it. He strode off in the direction of T.J.’s campsite. Barbara called after him, once, but her voice was too quiet to be heard.
• • •
Ten seconds later, T.J. came running down the small incline between her campsite and theirs, carrying a large pot before her. She knelt down in front of Barbara, who was now on her back, apparently unable to hold up her head any longer.
After inspecting her charge, T.J. popped up onto her feet and looked around, assessing everyone.
Then, correctly identifying Lowell Cargill as the person most likely to be helpful in a crisis, she held out the pot in her hands, instructing him to stoke the campfire, and then to boil water over it. She, meanwhile, scooped Barbara swiftly into her arms, and then walked as quickly as she could back up the hill.
“Shout when the water’s boiling,” she called.
Then she and Barbara disappeared inside her tent.
• • •
By nightfall, Barbara was cleaned, sutured, fed, watered, clothed in warmer clothing, and much pinker in the face. She was also back with her peers at the campsite, already downplaying the severity of what had transpired.
Later, in their tent, Tracy and Barbara huddled together as before.
“Barbara,” said Tracy.
“What?”
“I’m glad you’re okay.”
Barbara scoffed. “I would have been fine.”
“I don’t know,” said Tracy. “You didn’t look good.”
“I could have taken care of myself. I would have walked back to Camp Emerson if I’d gotten any worse. I would have walked all the way there and all the way back. No one needed to get T.J. involved.”
