8
I stepped from the canoe on shaking legs. Emmett told me to secure it to the same driftwood forest as the other vessel. Once I’d done so, he followed and waved me toward the overgrown jungle. But first I indulged in one last look at Mike. He’d scooted his rear to the hull in front of his seat and stretched his long legs over the yoke. All he needed to complete the picture was a beer in his hand… and unbound feet. He gave me a thumbs-up, and I smiled. Or at least, I tried. The result was closer to a paralyzed rictus that might attract carrion birds.
“Move,” Emmett said. “We don’t have all day.”
Funny—that’s exactly what I was supposed to have had. All day, with no stress. Asshole. I banked my anger and started toward the forest, my feet slipping on the unstable sand of the gentle slope
