I slap the basket out of his hand. It hits the ground, spilling berries everywhere.
“You said you’re not allergic to berries!”
“I’m not!” He puts his hands up. “I can have strawberries, raspberries—” He looks down at his left hand, which still holds a fistful of bumpy blackberries. “Uh-oh.”
So Tyrell has to run back to find Laurel—the nurse who serves as our healthfulness pathfinder. That leaves me shambling through the woods, topping up my basket and carrying his. I’ve just made it out of the trees when I hear a wild commotion coming from the direction of the Bath. A second later, two older ladies in dripping bathing suits come running toward me, looking terrified.
“What’s wrong?” I ask them.
“The Bath!” one of them gibbers. “There’s a horrible lizard in there!”
From the fuss they’re making, you’d think there’s at least a T. rex terrorizing our hot spring. But when I get to the Bath, it seems empty—no lizard, no people.
That’s when I spot it—a tiny brown-and-beige body about eight inches long, including the tail. It’s at the edge of the pool, trying—and failing—to scramble out of the hot water.
Without thinking, I drop both baskets and rush to the rescue. I lean over the edge and extend my hands under the slender, scaly body. But the poor little guy is scared of me, and wriggles away.
Undaunted, I grab the bug dipper and, wielding it by the pole, slide the mesh net underneath the lizard, and draw it out of the hot water. The eyes gleam bright green in the sun, and I know it’s happy to be free of all that bubbling heat.
I frown. It sounds so impersonal—a thing, not a living creature. As I draw the lizard out of the mesh and into my arms, he flips over for a second, and I can see that he’s male. He squirms for an instant, and then relaxes, snuggling his little head into my neck.
“There, there,” I coo. “You’re safe now.”
Can you believe it? I’m talking to a lizard, a cold-blooded critter with no hope of understanding that I’m someone who means him no harm. And yet the feeling that comes over me is exactly what I remember from the first time I put my arms around my Benito. He was a rescue dog, so sad and timid. When I reached out for him, he shied away in fear. He needed me—just like this lizard needs me. If I hadn’t scooped him out of the hot water, it would have killed him.
With my index finger, I stroke the brown leather skin of his little snout. In answer, the little guy chomps down on my pointer! It happens in the blink of an eye. And for such a tiny creature, it’s one heck of a bite too. It almost breaks the skin. When I yank my hand away, I can clearly count the impressions of at least fourteen needlelike teeth.
Some gratitude. “I saved your life, pal,” I admonish him.
My voice must scare him, because he freezes. I’m not yelling or anything like that, but I must seem like a giant to him, with a voice like thunder. I hold him a little tighter and he seems to relax.
Where could he have come from? The woods around here have plenty of wildlife—squirrels, birds, chipmunks, snakes, possums, gophers—but not a lot of lizards. He probably wandered onto Oasis property from the river. That’s why he ended up in the Bath. The poor little guy got lost and when he saw the bubbling water, he must have assumed that’s where he belonged. And by the time he realized his mistake, he was half boiled and couldn’t get out.
That’s what I’ll do, I decide. I’ll take him back to the river.
“Good news, Needles,” I whisper. “You’re going home.”
Abandoning my berry baskets by the Bath, I start across the center, cradling the little body gently. But as soon as the river comes into view, I know it isn’t right. The Saline is hardly the mighty Colorado, with white water and rapids. Still, the steady flowing current would be too much for a tiny creature like Needles. That’s probably how he wound up here in the first place. He blundered into the river and got washed downstream. It must have been terrifying. Poor Needles.
I stop in my tracks. Oh, wow, I’ve done it. I’ve given him a name, and he’s mine.
Now what am I supposed to do? There are no pets allowed at the Oasis. Otherwise, Mom and I would bring Benito for sure. Every summer, it breaks my heart to leave him behind.
On the other hand, this is life and death for Needles. He’s wrong for the woods, but he’s wrong for the river too. It makes me wonder where he came from. He doesn’t seem to fit in anywhere.
I reach a decision. If there’s no place for him, I’ll make one. It doesn’t count as breaking the rules if Needles isn’t an official pet. And he isn’t. He’s a fellow creature who needs my help.
I know Mom is still in the meditation center with Ivory, so I should have enough time to hide him somewhere. Mom and I always treat ourselves to new flip-flops every time we come to the Oasis. One of the empty shoeboxes should be the perfect size habitat for a little fellow like Needles.
He doesn’t seem to mind the motion as I carry him back to our cottage, but once we’re inside in the air-conditioning, he gets squirmy. I’m pretty sure it’s because he prefers the steamy temperature outside.
“Hold still,” I tell him in a low voice. “It’s only for a minute.”
I dig one of the shoeboxes out of the closet and pop him inside. He’s not a fan. He makes about twenty circuits of the confined space in the first few seconds. Using a ballpoint pen, I punch a few air holes in the lid, but it doesn’t make him any happier. I guess when you’re used to the soft earth and grass of nature, smooth cardboard must feel like the inside of a prison cell.
I rush out, drop to my knees, and scoop several handfuls of dirt and leaves into the shoebox. I feel bad for Needles, who surely doesn’t understand what’s happening. To him, it must seem like the sky is falling. But once the action is over, he actually settles down a little. So I settle down too. For the first time I realize that I’m breathing really hard, as if I’ve just run a mile.
“What have you got there?”
I jump up so fast that I almost lose my grip on the shoebox, tossing it into the face of the person standing over me. It’s Brooklynne Feldman. Wouldn’t you know it? I follow every rule 99.9 percent of the time—and the one time I’m doing something sneaky, the local CIA has to show up.
My face burns. Brooklynne has an even worse Oasis participation record than Jett. She isn’t openly a jerk like him. But the way she ghosts everybody else is almost as disrespectful. She even blows off meditation! It’s like the pathfinders have nothing to offer her, so she has to go off, doing her own thing. Come to think of it, she and Jett are perfect for each other. They should get married someday. Why ruin two houses?
“Hi, Brooklynne!” I try to sound casual, but I’m breathing too hard to pull it off.
“What’s in the box?” she asks, peering down through horn-rimmed glasses.
When I realize she’s trying to see in through the air holes, I jerk the box away. “Nothing!” I snap, and quickly add, “Rocks. You know, for painting in arts and crafts.”
That’s when Needles betrays me by running around the box like a crazy person, bumping against the sides.
I shake the box, but it’s too late. Brooklynne’s figured it out. There’s definitely something alive in my shoebox.