Slowly, I lower myself into the bubbling hot spring. As the scalding heat envelops me up to my neck, my heart begins to hammer in my chest and, just for a moment, large black dots distort my vision. I count—one Mississippi . . . two Mississippi . . . I only make it to three before I fly out of there and roll on the grass until every last burning drop is off me.
The only halfway fun activity at the Oasis is zip-lining. I’ve done it before. They’ve got some great ones down in Costa Rica, faster than roller coasters. This is pretty sucky in comparison to those, but it’s better than nothing.
I always make Matt come with me, because Matt is terrified of zip-lining. He doesn’t admit it, but it’s torture for him every single time. I look at it as his punishment for keeping me here. Whatever. I actually feel guilty about it when he barfs, which sometimes happens at the bottom.
But punishment isn’t the only reason I have to keep Matt close by. Brandon Bucholz also likes zip-lining, and he’s number two on the list of people who hate my guts.
“Look who’s here,” Brandon sneers as I climb up to the launch platform. “Aren’t you scared the weight of Daddy’s money will snap the cord?”
Unfortunately, Matt is pretty slow climbing to the top, probably because he doesn’t want to get there. “If I were you,” I tell Brandon pleasantly, “I’d be more worried about the weight of that boulder you call a head than anybody’s money.”
For all my jokes, I’m not as confident as I seem, because I really am scared of Brandon, who’s built like a mountain with feet. If he decides to toss me off this platform, there’s not much I can do to stop him.
He rounds on me. “You’ve got a big mouth, California Boy!”
I back up to the rail. “Hey, man—be whole.”
“I’ll put a hole in your face—”
Brandon falls silent when Matt makes it to the platform, looking dizzy. A whistle sounds from down on the forest floor. It’s the pathfinder at the bottom, signaling that the next rider is cleared to go. Brandon clips on and is gone before he can finish cursing me out.
“How would you feel about fighting Brandon’s dad?” I ask Matt. “He only weighs, like, three hundred pounds.”
He clips onto the line. “I’m just the scuba instructor, remember? That doesn’t cover mortal combat.”
“Seriously, if Brandon murders me, you have a pretty good chance of getting fired from Fuego.”
He heaves a sigh. “You’re Mr. Popularity wherever you go, aren’t you?”
I hip-check him off the edge. Once he sails away, arms and legs flailing, I kind of enjoy having the platform all to myself. It’s peaceful, and the view is 360 degrees. It’s not dramatic like Monte Carlo or Big Sur or anything like that. But these Arkansas woods kind of grow on you, if you don’t mind being bored out of your skull.
The last couple of times I’ve been up here, I’ve noticed kids out by the road, which is pretty far from all the activities. Not at the welcome center either, but at the far corner of the property. Something is going on over there.
It goes without saying that I don’t care. On the other hand, what else is there to think about? So I might care a little. Or maybe I’m just nosy.
So when I make it to the bottom of the zip line, I tell a very relieved Matt that we’re done for the day. I toss my helmet and harness into the equipment pile and head off through the woods toward the road.
Someone is coming my way, moving from the direction of the cottages. I duck behind a tree and watch the slender figure approach. Sure enough, it’s the girl who holds the top spot on the list of people who hate my guts—Grace Atwater.
She knows exactly where she’s going. She marches right past all the utility outbuildings and approaches the farthest and smallest one—a shabby shed with peeling paint. What could be in there? It looks like it hasn’t been used in ten years.
I step out from behind the tree. “Hey, Grace. What’s up?”
If the outdoors had a ceiling, she would have hit it. She jumps, spins around, and steps back, pressing herself against the door of the shed.
“Chill out,” I advise. In Arkansas in July, this is impossible.
“What are you doing here?” she demands.
In her hands, she clutches a table napkin with something hidden inside. I can tell by the wet marks on the paper that the contents must be soft and a little moist.
“What have you got there?” I ask.
“None of your business!”
“Come on, show me.”
I reach for the napkin, but she yanks it from my grasp. In the process, though, the contents get squashed, dropping a blob of whitish-yellow mush on the grass between us.
The smell reminds me of Thanksgiving dinner. “Is that a—turnip?”
She doesn’t deny it. Denying a turnip would be almost as weird as walking through the woods carrying some.
It dawns on me. “You’re feeding something.” I point to the shed. “You’ve got some kind of animal in there.”
She shakes her head no, her expression even more miserable than Matt’s at the top of a zip line.
“Good news,” comes a voice behind me. “I got the celery.”
Onto the scene lopes Tyrell, a large green stalk clutched in each fist. He freezes at the sight of me. “Oh—hi, Jett.”
“I knew it!” I exclaim. “You guys have a rabbit or something!”
“He’s not a rabbit!” Tyrell blurts.
I fold my arms in front of me. “Checkmate.”
Totally defeated, Grace opens the door of the shed a crack and peeks inside. “He’s in the tray.”
The three of us enter the small space. On the metal floor sits a paint tray filled with water. There, poised just below the surface, is this funny-looking lizard about eight inches long from nose to tail.
I can’t resist. “That looks like a pet to me. Doesn’t Nimbus have a rule against pets?”
Grace sticks her jaw out. “He’s not a pet. He’s a—rescue lizard.”
I’m blown away. “You mean like an EMT?”
“No, stupid!” she explodes. “I rescued him!”
“His name is Needles,” Tyrell puts in.
“Why?” I dangle my fingers over the paint tray.
Like an avenging angel, the little beast bursts up out of the water and clamps his mouth down on my pinkie. Shocked, I shake him off, sending him flopping back into the water with a splash.
“Cut it out!” Grace yanks one of the celery stalks from Tyrell and whacks me across the face with it. “Pick on somebody your own size!”
“He tried to bite my finger off!”
She examines my hand. “You’ll live. It didn’t even break the skin.”
“I think I better show this to Laurel,” I tell her. “I got bitten by a wild animal.”
“No!” she blurts. “You can’t tell the pathfinders we’re hiding him!”
“I don’t know,” I persist. “This place is supposed to be about mind and body wellness. Last time I checked, the finger is a part of the body.”
“Please don’t!” She’s begging now. “They’ll make me turn him loose, and there’s no way Needles is strong enough to survive on his own!”