The Troop

It took Max a minute to find the second one. He had to sink his hand in fairly far—almost to the elbow—ripping through some rubbery kinked hoses in the man’s abdomen to get it: tubelike things that tore up like the witchgrass growing in the shallows of North Point bay.

When it was done, the spark plugs lay side by side on the floor. The boys grinned at each other. It had to be the best news they’d ever gotten. They had to grope through a dead man’s insides to get it, but still.

They were both suffused with a feeling they hadn’t truly experienced in days:

Hope.

42

THEY CARRIED the spark plugs down to the shore. Max was so excited that he didn’t even bother to strip the wash gloves off. The sea came into view over the rocky scree. For the first time since they could recall, that vista didn’t seem so vast or the distance to North Point so very daunting.

Newton popped the motor canopy. He frowned.

“Should we just screw them in like that? All covered in… you know.”

“You think it matters?”

“It could. We should clean them first.”

Max said: “Won’t that ruin them?”

Newton pointed at the words running down the side of the plugs in small green type: Marine Standard. “That means they’re waterproof.”

They washed off the gray-pink curds in the frigid sea. They did so carefully, the way you’d wash oil off a baby mallard.

When they were clean, Newton put them on the big flat rock to dry. Newton chose it specifically because it was large, and flat, and flecked with pink granite. A very peculiar rock. He chose it because he wanted to be absolutely sure they could find the spark plugs again.

Max knocked on the motor’s gas tank. His knuckles brought forth a hollow whonk.

“Sounds almost empty.”

“What about the generator?” Newton said. “It should have gas.”

They returned to the campsite. The cap had been wrenched off the generator’s gas tank. The surrounding earth held the gleam of spilled gasoline. Max rocked the generator. Nothing sloshed inside.

A pall of hopelessness fell over them. The universe was aligned against them. Why? It struck Max that the universe ought to find better targets. Had to be plenty of psychopaths and deadbeats out there, right? Why pick on a couple of kids? The universe could be a stone-cold asshole sometimes.

“What about the emergency jerry can?” Newton said. “The Scoutmaster kept it in the cellar.”

The steps groaned as they traced their way down the stairs. Bars of sunlight fell through cracks in the cabin floor. The cellar was eerily clean: not a single spiderweb, none of the sickly gray mushrooms Max had spied growing in the corners when he was down here the other day.

God, Kent must have eaten them, he thought queasily.

Max picked the jerry can up. It was joyously heavy.

“There’s at least a gallon in here,” he said.

Maybe the universe wasn’t such an asshole after all. But it sure as hell made you suffer something fierce.

Case in point: when they returned to the boat, the spark plugs were gone.

THE PINK-FLECKED rock was bare except for two wet spots where they had lain. Newton actually laughed—a strangled squawk of disbelief.

“They’re here,” he said, shaking his head, a strained smile on his face. “No, no, they’re here somewhere, I’m sure of it. Where the hell else could they be?”

The boys waded into the frigid surf and poked doggedly around the rocks. Maybe a big wave had crashed up on shore and pulled them into the sea. But that couldn’t be—the rocks were dry as saltines. Their ankles turned pink, then blue. Max stomped out of the water.

“Are you kidding? Where the fuck are they, Newt?”

“How should I know? I left them here.”

“You should’ve put them in your pocket.”

“So it’s my fault? Are you serious? What do you think happened—a fish jumped up and swallowed them? A bird flew off with them?”

“Okay, what if a bird did pick them up? A pelican, like the ones perched on the buoys out at Barker Bay? My dad says they swallow soda cans.”

“God. Don’t be so stupid.” Newton adopted a superior tone—as if he were talking to a preschooler who’d just claimed the Tooth Fairy was real. “Pelicans are shore birds.”

“So what’s all this then, Newt?” Max spread his arms out. “Is this a shore, or are you just a big fat moron?”

“Pelicans are mainland shore birds. This is an iiiisland. Mainland shore birds don’t fly to iiiiislands. Do you understand that, or do I need to draw you a map—”

Max took two steps forward, planted his palms in Newton’s chest, and shoved. Newton went down with a jolt. Max expected him to stay down just as he always did—but instead Newton propelled himself off the rocks and drove his shoulder into Max’s stomach, knocking the wind out of him.