Untraceable

Survival Skill #3

“—It’ll take you 25,000 days to search all that land. And that’s only if you search every day for sixty-five years. Forget sick days and vacation time. You’ll be seventy-nine years old. Think how much trash you could clean up in that amount of time. Might even be able to save Earth.”

I drop my head and try to breathe through the panic cinching my insides. My fingers graze over the black leather bracelet Dad gave me last year. I stare at the flyfishing symbol engraved on the little silver circle. Two words are embedded into the flat surface. Fly High.

My eyes sting, but I pinch back the tears. “Please.”

Carl comes out from behind his desk. I can’t decide what he resembles more, a Q-Tip or a teaspoon. When he passes by a statue of a man holding the North Carolina flag, it plays “Dixie.” Carl stops in his tracks, as if he’s respecting the national anthem. I surprised he doesn’t salute during the two verses.

When the song finally finishes, he pulls me to my feet and positions my body in front of the smudged mirror hanging on his wall. “Grace, honey, look at yourself.”

I stare at my scruffy reflection. My hair is knotted and jutting out in all directions like I’m Einstein on an episode of Survivor. Lines of dirt are smudged down my pointy nose and a deep scratch marks my jawbone, covering my cheek in dried blood. I flip over my hands and notice the grime caked under my short nails. My spirit sags, weighing me down.

Maybe he’s right. I’m going nuts.

Carl cups both of my shoulders with his hands and stands behind me, looking over my shoulder at me in the mirror. “I’m getting worried about you. Don’t you think this might be going a bit too far?”

Without saying anything, I study his eyes. They’re similar in color to mine, except mine resemble algae; his are more of a muted pine green, which reminds me of the deep forest. Which reminds me of my dad. My throat swells, making it hard to swallow. I drop my head and focus on my muddy boots to avoid Carl’s stare. A frayed thread on the toe teases me. I fight the urge to bend over and tug on it.

No sense in making anything else in my life unravel.

Carl steers me back to my seat and sits in the one next to me. “Sweetheart, maybe it’s time you drop this for a while and focus more on your future.” He catches my eye and smiles a little. “Maybe get your head out of the woods.”

Carl’s on a roll for the dumb jokes today, 0 for 3. A quote from Dad’s wilderness survival course pops into my head. Never let an animal see your fear. Problem is, Carl can smell the stuff a mile away.

I raise my chin a fraction of an inch and decide to use my first secret weapon. Begging. “Please Carl.”

He snorts, “It’s Captain to you.”

Ever since I’ve known Carl, he’s insisted everyone call him Captain. Including his family. I bet he secretly wishes everyone would salute too.

I decide to try my second tactic. My ex-boyfriend, Wyn, used to say my puppy eyes got him to cave every time. “Sorry … Captain.”

Instead of falling into my pity trap, Carl gets up and returns to his chair in silence.

Time to pull out a new tactic of persuasion: The Art of Brown Nosing. Though I must say, I’ve never been very good at it. I clear my throat. “Captain, with your position and reputation, I know you can do something. Maybe convince the USFWS to keep my dad’s case open. For just a little longer. Maybe test for fingerprints or something?”

“First of all, don’t blow smoke up my ass, Grace. It’s not you.” Then he waves the air, as if an annoying fly passed by. “Secondly, this is not a CSI marathon. No matter how much you want there to be something out there, doesn’t mean there’s anything to find, especially if we haven’t found it already.”