Stanley awoke in a meadow, looking up at the giant rock tower. It was layered and streaked with different shades of red, burnt orange, brown, and tan. It must have been over a hundred feet tall.
Stanley lay awhile, just looking at it. He didn’t have the strength to get up. It felt like the insides of his mouth and throat were coated with sand.
And no wonder. When he rolled over he saw the water hole. It was about two and a half feet deep and over three feet wide. At the bottom lay no more than two inches of very brown water.
His hands and fingers were sore from digging, especially under his fingernails. He scooped some dirty water into his mouth, then swished it around, trying to filter it with his teeth.
Zero moaned.
Stanley started to say something to him, but no words came out of his mouth, and he had to try again. “How you doing?” It hurt to talk.
“Not good,” Zero said quietly. With great effort, he rolled over, raised himself to his knees, and crawled to the water hole. He lowered his head into it and lapped up some water.
Then he jerked back, clutched his knees to his chest, and rolled to his side. His body shook violently.
Stanley thought about going back down the mountain to look for the shovel, so he could make the water hole deeper. Maybe that would give them cleaner water. They could use the jars as drinking glasses.
But he didn’t think he had the strength to go down, let alone make it back up again. And he didn’t know where to look.
He struggled to his feet. He was in a field of greenish white flowers that seemed to extend all the way around Big Thumb.
He took a deep breath, then walked the last fifty yards to the giant precipice and touched it.
Tag, you’re it.
Then he walked back to Zero and the water hole. On the way he picked one of the flowers. It actually wasn’t one big flower, he discovered, but instead each flower was really a cluster of tiny little flowers that formed a round ball. He brought it to his mouth but had to spit it out.
He could see part of the trail he had made the night before, when he carried Zero up the mountain. If he was going to head back down and look for the shovel, he realized, he should do it soon, while the trail was fresh. But he didn’t want to leave Zero. He was afraid Zero might die while he was gone.
Zero was still lying doubled over on his side. “I got to tell you something,” he said with a groan.
“Don’t talk,” said Stanley. “Save your strength.”
“No, listen,” Zero insisted, then he closed his eyes as his face twisted with pain.
“I’m listening,” Stanley whispered. “I took your shoes,” Zero said.
Stanley didn’t know what he was talking about. His shoes were on his feet. “That’s all right,” he said. “tust rest now.”
“It’s all my fault,” said Zero.
“It’s nobody’s fault,” said Stanley. “I didn’t know,” Zero said.
“That’s okay,” Stanley said. “tust rest.”
Zero closed his eyes. But then again he said, “I didn’t know about the shoes.”
“What shoes?” “From the shelter.”
It took a moment for Stanley to comprehend. “Clyde Livingston’s shoes?”
“I’m sorry,” said Zero.
Stanley stared at him. It was impossible. Zero was delirious.
Zero’s “confession” seemed to bring him some relief. The muscles in his face relaxed. As he drifted into sleep, Stanley softly sang him the song that had been in his family for generations.
“If only, if only,” the woodpecker sighs, “The bark on the tree was just a little bit softer.” While the wolf waits below, hungry and lonely,
He cries to the moo—oo—oon, “If only, if only.”
