By the time Derek finished gorging, there wasn’t a crumb on the platter. His snakebitten chin was shining from the creamy combination of cake goo and antibiotic ointment. He dabbed a paper napkin to his mouth and nodded at Raven.
“The scene we shot this afternoon,” he said in a half whisper, “did you look at the footage?”
“Not yet.”
“Here’s a thought-what if we said it was a cottonmouth that fanged me?”
“Then we’d get boxes of angry letters from snake collectors and herpetologists who would notice that it wasn’t a cottonmouth.”
Derek smirked. “Come on, Raven, use your imagination. CGI?”
He was referring to computer-generated imaging, a technique often used in movies to create illusions and special effects. “Those little geeks in postproduction,” he said, “they can turn it into a cottonmouth or rattler, or any kind of snake we want. Then we can shoot a scene where I’m injecting myself with the antidote and saving my own life!”
Raven sat back and folded her arms. “You said we were done faking it. You said you wanted to put the ‘real’ back into reality.”
Derek was annoyed to be reminded of his recent conversion to integrity.
“Whatever,” he muttered lumpishly.
The sky strobed, a jagged stutter of ice-blue light. A ripple of thunder rattled a tray of silverware.
Derek frowned. “Get someone to patch that hole in my tent. Chop-chop.”
“Fine,” said Raven.
“While we’re on the subject, don’t they make one of those bloody things with air-conditioning? It must be ninety degrees in there-”
Just then, a piercing scream arose behind them. They spun around and saw one of the catering staff, a lanky middle-aged woman sporting a green hairnet, hopping frenetically. She was pointing at a long-tailed clump of fuzz that lay quivering on the cake platter.
Raven stood up and gasped. “What is that-a bird?”
Derek was standing, too. “Birds don’t have big ears,” he said.
“A rat!”
“No. Rats don’t have wings.” Approaching the platter, he leaned down to examine the furry, twitching intruder. When he turned back to Raven, he was grinning.
“Just as I suspected-a bat!”
She said, “Lord, that’s a big one.”
“Indeed.” Derek’s eyes twinkled in the golden flickering of the campfire.
“It must be sick or hurt,” Raven said. “I’ll go get Mr. Cray.”
“Wait, I’ve got a better idea.” Derek motioned to the director. “How long will it take you blokes to set up some lights?”
The director folded his cards. “Seriously?”
Raven looked down at the woozy bat, then back at Derek Badger.
“Oh no,” she said.
“Oh yes!” He licked his upper lip. “Let’s do this!”
FIFTEEN
Raven Stark had asked Wahoo to stay and eat with the crew, but he said no thanks. When he got back to camp, Tuna was sitting on a corner of the tarp, reading by flashlight.
“Nice outerwear,” she said. “Does this mean you’re officially part of the team?”
He took off the Expedition Survival! jacket and put on a dry T-shirt. From his father’s tent came the familiar croaks and snuffles of snoring. Mickey had gone to bed early.
“I scared you off, huh?” Tuna said.
Wahoo shook his head. “The stuff about your dad, it’s sort of…”
“Heavy.”
“Definitely.” Wahoo sat down beside her. “You ever thought about going to the cops?”
The question hung there in the empty night and then evaporated, like a wisp of smoke.
Tuna said, “Today the airboat driver asked about my black eye. He thought it was you who socked me.”
“He actually said that?” Wahoo was mortified. “What did you tell him?”
“The truth, of course, and guess what? His old man used to do the same thing to him and his little sister.”
So that’s what Link and Tuna had been talking about on the boat. Once again, Wahoo wasn’t sure what to say.
“Even on Christmas they got slapped around is what he told me,” Tuna said.
“Did they call the police?”
“I didn’t ask.” Tuna closed the book and handed the flashlight to Wahoo. “Hey, I didn’t mean to freak you out.”
“No, it’s all right. Anytime you want to talk.”
“The rain’s quit. Let’s get some food.”
They pulled up the tarp, which had kept the kindling dry. Wahoo started the fire and cooked hot dogs wrapped in bacon strips. It wasn’t a fancy catered meal, but it tasted great. Dessert was Fruit Roll-Ups.
Afterward, Tuna began telling him about the wild orchids of the Everglades. “There’s one called the ghost orchid. It’s incredibly rare and beautiful!”
Wahoo wasn’t paying close attention. He was thinking about what his mom said when he told her about Tuna.
“Earth to Lance. Am I boring you?”
“Sorry,” Wahoo said. “I was just-”
“What?”
“You said your mother’s up north.”
“In Chicago,” Tuna said.
Wahoo didn’t want to seem pushy, but there were things he needed to know. “When’s she coming home?”
Tuna shook her head. “I’m not sure. My grandma’s real sick.”
“Did you tell your mom what happened? What your dad did to you?”
“She’s got enough to worry about.”
“But-”
“Listen, he’s slugged her before, too,” Tuna said.
Again Wahoo was stunned. He couldn’t picture his dad ever hurting his mother. Living with Mr. Gordon must have been terrifying.
“Mom wanted me to go up with her to take care of Grandma,” Tuna said, “but I decided to stay here and finish out the school year. So she took Daddy aside and said, ‘If you lay a hand on that girl while I’m gone…’ Anyhow, it didn’t stop him.”
“When did all this start?” Wahoo asked. “The hitting, I mean.”
“Doesn’t matter. Sometimes you wait for somebody to change, and you end up waiting too long. Soon as Mom gets back, we’re outta there.”
“But isn’t there anyone else you could stay here with until then? Aunts or uncles?”
“I’m tired, Lance.”
“Sorry. This is none of my business.”
“Hey, we’re good.” Tuna smiled sadly. “If it was happening to you, I’d be asking the same questions.” She said good night and ducked into her tent.
Wahoo had no hope for sleep. He moved closer to the fire and poked the embers with a stick. Aiming the
