Saturday, October 19, 10:02 a.m. She aims the gun at my heart. “Go on, Colin. Jump.” We’re on the Capilano Suspension Bridge. Far below, Capilano River swirls and foams over the jagged canyon rocks. I step sideways to glance down. The bridge sways. My guts twist. Ray steps sideways, too. In her white-knuckle grip, the gun follows me like a homing device. “You’re going to jump,” she says. “If you don’t, I’ll shoot you.” She can’t mean it, not with those picnickers back there, in the park. She can’t take the chance they’ll look up. She’s bluffing. She has to be. I think of that rushing current, those sharp, pointy rocks. “Forget it,” I tell her. Ray shrugs, and fires.

The trail they’d been running on wound through the wooded hills that surrounded the town of Craven Valley. Even with shortcuts, it was going to be a long trip back. Paul grabbed Louie’s hand and pulled himself up, wincing in pain as he tried to put weight on his right foot. “Damn it, Kid,” Paul muttered through clenched teeth. “I’m not sure this is going to work. Maybe you should leave me here and go get help.” Louie shook his head. “Nope.” Louie looked up at the sky. “Getting too late,” he said. “Dark soon and it’s getting cold. We need to get you out of here. We can do it.” He pulled Paul’s arm over his shoulder and helped him to a nearby birch tree. “Here, hold on.” Paul put his hand out and braced himself against the tree, holding his swollen ankle off the ground. Louie disappeared into the woods, returning a few minutes later with a sturdy fir branch. He was effortlessly whittling off the smaller branches with a large folding pocketknife, cleaning the limb into a presentable walking stick. Paul was impressed. “Chingachgook. Last of the Mohicans.” “Cree, actually,” Louie said, not looking up. “You’re a Cree? I thought they all lived up north.” “Some of us actually have cars and venture south occasionally.” “Funny guy,” Paul said. “What’s with the knife?Looks damned sharp.” Without a word, Louie handed the walking stick to Paul. He put the knife blade against his forearm and glided it forward. Hair curled off like he was using a razor. “My father’s,” Louie said. “Didn’t leave me much, but he did leave me this. He always kept a whetstone in the house. Sharpened this nearly every day. Used to tell me that a man should never leave the house without a sharp knife. So I never do.” He snapped the knife shut and pushed it into a pocket in the back of his running shorts. “Even when I’m running.” He paused. “Especially when I’m running.” “Impressive,” Paul commented, testing the stick. “And thanks for the crutch.” Louie glanced up, his dark eyes unreadable. “Anytime,” he said. “He pointed his chin at Paul. “Put your right arm over my shoulder.” Paul did as he was told. By leaning against Louie’s shoulder and using the stick to brace himself as he swung his left foot forward, they soon established a rhythm. They weren’t fast but they were steady. Uphill sections were the hardest, and occasionally Paul would catch his right foot on a root or inadvertently drop it onto the trail, causing pain to shoot up his leg. They shuffled along in silence for many minutes, both concentrating on synchronizing their steps, moving together to cover the most ground without causing Paul to lose his balance. “Do you live here?” Paul finally asked as they hobbled down a gentle slope. Louie was silent for several steps. Paul wondered if he had heard him, or if he was going to reply if he had. “Sort of,” Louie said at last. Paul looked quizzically at the side of Louie’s face. “What do you mean, ‘Sort of?’ You either do or you don’t.” They continued to limp down the trail, Paul’s right arm over Louie’s shoulder, planting his stick and hopping forward with his left foot. “I live in a foster home. I don’t really live anywhere.” Paul glanced over at Louie again. Louie’s eyes stayed on the trail ahead. “Oh,” he said quietly. “But you’re new here, right? At the school?” “Just transferred in this August.” “Transferred in?” “Yeah. My foster parents tossed me out of my last place. Quesnel. Said I was disobedient. Which I was. I told them they were pigs.” He shrugged slightly. “Which they were. That was my fourth place.” The two had established a loping rhythm now, Louie leading with his right foot, Paul hopping along with his left. “Your fourth foster home?” Paul thought about it. “So this is number five. Since, like when?” Paul thought he noticed Louie’s jaw tighten. “Since they grabbed us. Six years ago.” They were on an even section of the path now, their steps cushioned by wet brown leaves. “Why’d they take you away in the first place?” Paul asked, wondering if he was going too far. But Louie only shrugged. “Lots of things. But mainly because I’m an Indian.” Paul turned back toward the rough path, grimacing as his right foot struck the ground. “You said ‘us.’” Paul felt Louie’s shoulders tighten. “I have a brother and sister.” Then he said nothing and they jogged erratically along in silence once more. “I will get them back,” Louie almost whispered after several minutes. “If it kills me, I will bring them home.” They were nearer the town now and could see lights begin to flicker on in houses in the distance as the late September afternoon sky began to darken. As they hobbled over the crest of a hill, they heard a commotion below them. They stopped, panting after the climb. Suddenly a tall blond boy, trailed by four or five others, all in the blue and gold Craven Valley Secondary School shorts and singlets, burst out of a tangle of trees. The leader looked up the trail. “Hey, out of the way!” he shouted, charging up the hillside. “We’re training,” he added contemptuously. Louie and Paul moved slightly to the side of the trail and watched as the boys ran smoothly by them, no one saying a word. “Thanks for the help!” Paul yelled angrily as the last boy disappeared over the hill.