And then a thought came to Fish that felt cruel and logical. He stood up, brushed off his knees, and spoke it. He pointed a finger at Bread’s face.
“You’re right. It is your shell. And it’s your fault. All of this is.”
“What’s my fault?” Bread’s eyes widened and then narrowed into slits.
Fish’s finger stayed pointed. Accusing his friend in this way felt like honing a knife too steeply. Knowing another stroke would ruin the edge, he finished the stroke anyway.
“It’s because of you and your rotten old man that I’m even out here.” The edge bit. Fish was ashamed the moment he said it. The men in his life, his grandpa, his dad, would never say such a thing and would be embarrassed of anyone who did.
It was too late. Bread lowered his head and charged. Fish took the hit in the stomach, and the breath was knocked from his lungs as they thumped to the ground. Bread kept his head down in Fish’s chest and swung his fists into his rib cage. Fish retaliated, breathless, by driving the heel of his shoe into Bread’s side. Neither boy was a very good fighter. The blows didn’t do much damage. It was the shock of the thing that hurt. They’d never fought before. Not like this. Not with blows. Bread landed a good one into Fish’s side. It hurt enough for Fish to grab his friend in a headlock, to try to stop the punches. He didn’t know how to do anything but squeeze Bread’s head. So he squeezed it as hard as he could. Bread kept swinging. Both boys were crying. Fish got his breath back.
“Get off me, Breadwin!”
Bread landed another hook into his side. “Take it back!” came his muffled cry.
Fish drove his heel into Bread’s ribs, and Bread took another three or four swings. In the midst of it, Fish became aware of something. It was a sound. It sounded like a bird, a jingling of sorts. He remembered the finch, its watchful eye. But this was not a bird.
“Bread, stop hittin’ me—Bread!”
Bread squirmed with all his might to get his head free. “Take it back!” he hissed.
“Bread, stop—I hear something.” And he did hear something. He wasn’t imagining it. It sent a bolt of fear through his body. Reflexively, he let go of Bread’s head and tried to sit up.
“Bread, I hear—”
Free of Fish’s grasp, Bread reared back and cocked Fish a roundhouse punch straight across the jaw. Fish saw stars in his eyes as his head landed back in the grass.
Bread cocked his arm for another swing, but suddenly froze and stared at the wood line behind him. “You hear that?” he asked in a hushed voice. “Fish, get up, it sounds like—”
Fish lifted his head and worked his jaw open. It hurt. “Horses” was all he could manage to say. He closed his mouth and swallowed. He tasted blood in his spit. And then he heard it again. It was the whinny of a horse, the jangling tack, up in the tree line. Then he heard the muffled sounds of men’s voices.
Bread grabbed him and stood him on his feet. “It’s the search party,” he whispered. “Come on!”
Fish staggered after him, his hand on his jaw, and when he wasn’t moving fast enough Bread grabbed him and pulled him along. Bread stooped to pick up the tarp as the two boys ran for the cleft of Lantern Rock. Fish dragged the backpacks and fish poles. The sun was higher in the sky now, but the cleft was still dark. They dove for it and lay down on their stomachs on the bed of brown cedar needles. Ferns blocked the entrance. The cedar blocked the sun. Bread balled up the tarp under himself and lay on it. His wide eyes looked out at the bright riverbank. His nostrils flared. Fish tried to meter his own breathing. It sounded very loud now that they were trying to hide. For a few breaths, he rested his forehead against the needles. They stuck to his lips as he panted. His jaw ached, and he knew he deserved every bit of it. He was the reason they were out here, not Bread. He was the killer, not Bread. Fish had a fleeting thought about how maybe he should walk out into the sunlight and turn himself in, hands in the air, confession on his bloody lips.
He nearly stood up when he felt Bread’s hand press down against his back. “Shhh,” whispered Bread, almost imperceptibly. When Fish raised his head, ever so slowly, the view of the riverbank was taken up almost entirely by a horse and half a rider standing not five paces from the entrance. Fish froze. He saw a brown boot in a silver stirrup. Jeans and horsehide. The cedar branches blocked the man’s torso and face. Holstered to the horse’s flank in a saddle scabbard sat a lever-action rifle. Fish swallowed blood again, and cursed himself for being so loud.
The horse stirred.
“They were here,” said a man’s voice, which Fish recognized as his grandfather’s. “Horses smell ’em. Grass is flattened.”
Indescribable hunger washed over Fish upon hearing his grandfather’s voice. That voice promised competence, safety, rest. It seemed to remove all pain, even the pain in his jaw. Here was a man who could wash the world with his hands, wave them in the air and make it all ordered again. The urge to burst out of that cleft was overwhelming, and Fish nearly made up his mind to do so when he felt Bread’s hand on his back.
“Wait.” His friend mouthed the word.
Fish shook his head. “I want to go,” he mouthed back.
Bread tightened his lips and shook his head. He
