Ranger Bob tsked as he scribbled into the ledger. “That’s too bad,” he said. “Next?”
“Dan. Rock slide.”
“And he died?”
“His pelvis was crushed.”
“And he died.”
“We assume.” Bea paused. “I mean, we had to leave him behind.”
She saw Ranger Bob raise his eyebrows as he stared intently at the paper before him. He didn’t say anything. But she could see how hard he pressed his pen into the log. She hoped it was just to capture the information in triplicate. Ranger Bob was one of the more sympathetic of the Rangers they dealt with. She didn’t know what she would do if he started to judge them too. They had seen a lot of death. They had become hardened to it. Not just the Community members who had perished in grisly or mundane ways. But around them everything died openly. Dying was as common as living. They worried about one another, of course, but when one of them ceased surviving for whatever reason, they closed ranks and put their energy into what remained alive. This was an unanticipated outcome of living in the Wilderness, but it had happened quickly and cleanly. There used to be a cultural belief, in an era before she was born, that having close ties to nature made one a better person. And when they first arrived in the Wilderness, they imagined living there might make them more sympathetic, better, more attuned people. But they came to understand there’d been a great misunderstanding about what better meant. It’s possible it simply meant better at being human, and left the definition of the word human up for interpretation. It might have only meant better at surviving, anywhere, by any means. Bea thought living in the Wilderness wasn’t all that different than living in the City in that respect.
Ranger Bob coughed and said, “Well, jeez. That’s too bad for”—he looked back over his form—“Pinecone. Who’s taking care of him?”
“We are,” Bea said, snapping a bit. Heat rose to her cheeks. She couldn’t tell if it was shame or anger.
Ranger Bob looked up. “Well, of course you are.” He smiled. “Who else?”
“Caroline. We lost her in River 9.”
“When?”
“Yesterday.”
His pen stopped. “Now you’re sure? Because she could just be zipping along not far from here.”
“We’re sure.”
“Because River 9’s fast right now but not too cold. And below here it gets slow again.”
“It was a log. She’s definitely gone.”
“Ah, that’s too bad. I liked her.”
Bea couldn’t believe she had to hear about Caroline again. She hit the counter angrily. “Seriously?”
Ranger Bob took a step back, startled. “What?”
“I’m so sick of hearing about Caroline,” she grunted.
Ranger Bob’s jaw dropped.
“I mean, why are we still talking about her?” She chewed on a finger distractedly. She shook her head in disgust. Caroline? Honestly, fuck Caroline.
Ranger Bob regarded her like a wild animal. He said cautiously, “Well, she just died . . . yesterday, you said?” He might as well have been saying, Hey, bear, hey, bear to calm a beast.
Bea blinked and tried to swallow her rage. “Yes, of course.” She straightened. “She did just die yesterday.” She exhaled slowly. “I’m sorry for losing my temper.” The heat rose back into her cheeks.
“Well, I hope you’ll forgive me, but I liked Caroline and I’ll miss her,” he said, smirking.
She hid her face. She didn’t want to see how she blushed. “I’m sorry.”
He held up a hand as though he understood. He was so good at seeming to understand everything. She thought again about Lower Post and felt truly sad. What would she do without Ranger Bob? Would he miss her too?
Ranger Bob leaned in. “I guess I won’t be ruining her secret anymore, but I used to let her use the commode back here. My wife puts a little bowl of potpourri in there. Caroline said she liked the smell.” He chuckled. “It’s the little things. Okay, moving on from Caroline, may she rest in peace. How much garbage?”
“Wait,” Bea croaked. “One more. Madeline. Stillborn.” Her face blazed. She stammered, “I didn’t know if it counted.”
Ranger Bob gazed at her for a moment, then looked at his form, flipping it over and back. “Well, seems like it doesn’t count. Good to know. So let’s just call it three, shall we?” He scratched out the 4 in the column for Total Deaths, smiling a mayor’s smile, tight, all lip.
Bea sputtered in agreement so she wouldn’t whimper. Her little unfinished girl was not quite finished enough to count. Was there some kind of comfort there, or did it make the loss more devastating? All at once she felt nothing.
“How much garbage?” he asked again.
“Twenty pounds,” she whispered.
Ranger Bob whistled. “Wowsers. That much?”
Bea wanted to crumple to the floor. How monstrous they must sound. A dead baby and now too much trash.
She said, “On account of our missed trip to Post.”
“Ah, ah,” he said, nodding. “Makes sense. How many bags is that now?”
“Three of those bags we picked up here last time.”
“Oh, those bags are awful.”
“Just awful. I can’t believe they didn’t bust open.”
“Well, because you made those ingenious covers for them.”
“Debra made those.”
“She’s quite a seamstress.”
“Quite.”
He perused a checklist. “Well, I can give you the new Manual pages, but I can’t promise I have the newest versions. And we might as well fill out questionnaires since you’re all here. They might appreciate having some new data. Since it’s been a while.”
“Blood and urine too?”
“No, we sent the equipment to the Lower Post.” He peered at her again. “Because you were supposed to go there.”
“We’re going.”
“Of course you are. You’ll want to— I already sent all your mail down there,” he said, winking again. But again, his tone turned weary. “But also, you have to go.”
Bea leaned in. “Bob, I get it,” she cooed and thrilled when a blush rose to the apples of his cheeks.
“Okay, okay,” he said, sheepishly.
“We’ve never been to Lower Post.” She tried to sound excited, but she heard her dread.
“Well, I’d be surprised if you had. It’s not easy to get to,” he said, counting out questionnaires. A look of concern passed over his face, but he erased it with a small toss of his head. “So, think of it as an adventure.” He handed the papers over. “I’ve got to be on my way so the missus won’t get mad. So just drop these in the mail slot when they’re done.”
She nodded, took them, and then he boyishly thrust his hand out.
“So? Good luck to you then!”
She shook it. “I hope we see you again soon.”
Their hands lingered, as though they might not.
Bea turned toward the door and tried to memorize what she could. The particular stale chemical smell of the place, the light buzzing at a high pitch, the quiet whir of some machine that was always on here but never at Upper Middle Post, where they sometimes stopped midwinter. Ranger Bob wore a women’s deodorant—she was sure of it. Or perhaps he put baby powder in his socks so he wouldn’t get blisters. Her mother had done that sometimes, when she put on her nice shoes, which pinched her feet. But Ranger Bob wore regulation sturdy sensible shoes. What was his excuse? She imagined it kept his feet soft, and that he and his wife would rub feet in bed, under clean white sheets, nudging the warm and loyal dog that lay at the foot. She felt a yearning to be in that bed, that domesticity. She looked at Ranger Bob’s wedding band glinting under the fluorescents and briefly hated Mrs. Ranger Bob, whoever she was.