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nostrils.David sniffed the air like a dog, his eyes closed, the mere hint of a smile on his lips. Terry and Phil leaned toward the open door, seemingly unconscious of their posture.
    Then the dying engine backfired. A plume of smoke, reeking of oil, blew in.
    Terry coughed and waved his hand in front of his face.
    David hopped out. He moved twenty paces into the meadow, out from under the slowing blades and away from the engine’s fumes.
    Phil found the handle that opened the door beside him. He slid down, leaping the last twelve inches. He tumbled, rolled, and sprawled in the grass, face up, as though he were making a snow angel.
    Hutch climbed out of his own door, laughed at Phil, and laughed at being here. He leaned back into the cabin to shove the map into his pack. He withdrew an empty Monster can from a cup holder, and Franklin touched his hand.
    â€œI’ll get those,” the pilot said. “You’ll have enough trash to haul out in ten days.”
    â€œHow far are we from that area where you suggested we camp?”
    â€œThree, four hundred yards. That way.” He pointed over Hutch’s shoulder.
    Hutch wondered if he truly looked as glum as his twin images appeared in Franklin’s glasses. He felt lighter, happier than he had in months. Maybe the emotion was only a tiny swing in the right direction, but it felt good after the long months of near-constant stress and depression. The thought made him realize his heart still ached, heavy in his chest.
    Give it time, he told himself. We just got here. If simply flying over No Man’s Land could nudge my happy meter up even the slightest bit, imagine what ten days of surface dwelling, river fishing, caribou hunting, campfire storytelling, and peeing like a bear is going to do. Speaking of peeing . . .
    â€œYou good with the gear?” he asked. “I’ve gotta get rid of two cups of coffee and an energy drink.”
    â€œJust step away from the bird, eh?” Franklin said.
    Hutch grinned and moseyed over to where Phil lay. He looked skyward, treeward, anywhere-ward but Phil-ward, acting like he didn’t see him down in the grass. He adjusted his waistband, unzipped his fly.
    â€œHey, hey, hey!” Phil yelled. He rolled away, then rose to his knees. “What’re you doing?”
    â€œOh, Phil, man, I didn’t see you. Sorry.” He turned away and relieved himself.
    â€œYou’re still too close,” Phil scolded.
    Hutch chuckled. Every trip up north, they all took a day or two to get used to the freedom. There was something about living in a civilized, restroom-abundant world that made relieving yourself outdoors feel as wrong as swearing in church. He recalled taking his son, Logan, on his first camping trip six years ago, when the boy was five. Phil, David, and Justin, David’s son, had been there too. As kids his age do, Logan had waited until the last moment to ask where the bathroom was. He had been holding himself, legs crossed, bobbing up and down. Hutch had pointed to the nearest tree.
    â€œI can’t go there,” he had protested.
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œIt’s outside.”
    â€œWhere did you think we were going to go?”
    Logan had shrugged and bounced, worry etching his smooth features. Finally he had dashed behind the tree. By the next morning he was attempting to put out the campfire in the way only boys can, shooting off boulders into the lake and generally proving that inhibition crumbled fast.
    Pleased he had gotten into the swing of things quickly, Hutch zipped up and smiled. “Just don’t douse our campfire the way Logan did that time, remember?”
    Phil laughed. “That was classic.” He looked off toward the trees a moment. “Should have brought him. Logan.”
    â€œThink he’s old enough to hang with us?”
    â€œSure. Justin too.” David’s boy was now twelve.
    Hutch shrugged. “I did run the idea of bringing