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funny to say.
    —I know what you’ve been doing, she says.
    —Ma’am?
    —I never said anything. Your dad was so proud and downright stubborn, but I’ve known all along.
    —Known what, Mom?
    —That you’ve been paying for my medicine.
    A self-employed, small business owner, Cole James didn’t have health insurance, and Caroline’s medications were astronomical. Knowing his father would never allow him to pay, Remington convinced his mom’s doctor to tell his parents that Caroline was in a study being conducted by the drug company that manufactured her medicine so it would be provided for free.
    —I love you, he says. Wish I could do more.
    They are quiet a moment.
    —Think I’ll see your father again?
    —Absolutely.
    —Remington Joshua James. I could get anybody to come in here and lie to me. Hell, they have entire foundations set up just for the purpose of granting dying people their last wish. I’m looking for the truth from you.
    He smiles at the faint glimpse of the feisty young female she had been.
    —I certainly hope so—for you and dad more than anyone else I know—but I have more doubt than belief most of the time.
    —Me, too. They are quiet again.
    —Sometimes I believe, he says. I really do. I think there’s so much to life, to this world, that this can’t be it. There’s got to be something more. Something beyond our short little lives. If not, what was all the bother for?
    —When?
    —Ma’am?
    —When do you believe? What times?
    —Mostly when I’m alone in the woods looking at the world through a lens.
    Y ou’re alone in the woods, he thinks. You feel like something’s here watching over you now?
    He thinks of the shot, burned, and buried girl somewhere back in the woods. No one was watching out for her, were they?
    Still, just in case: Please be with my mom. Send somebody to check on her, to call or stop by. And if I don’t make it out of here, please let somebody take care of her.
    I might not make it out of here.
    It’s a very real possibility, yet difficult for him to process. Can this be his last night on the planet, his final moments? What can he do to make sure it’s not? Can he kill a man? Does he have that in him? He honestly doesn’t know. Not something ever put to the test. Not something he ever dreamed would be.
    This can’t be it. I don’t know what to think, what to do. I can’t even call Heather to tell her—what? What would I tell her?
    He pulls out his phone to check for signal.
    At certain places along the river there’s just enough reception to make a crackling, static-filled call.
    He has no idea where he is. He thought he had been running east toward the Chipola River, but if so, he should have reached it. He keeps moving. Maybe he’s closer than he thinks.
    No signal.
    Not the faintest trace. Where the hell am I? Lost.
    Think.
    How do I find my way to the river?
    He thinks if he can just make it to the river, he can flag down a passing boat or manage to make a phone call.
All roads lead to the river.
    Lyrics to songs about the river play in his head, and he recalls the year three of his favorite artists put out songs about the river—not any particular river, but
the
river.
    The river of life. The river of dreams. The river of souls. The river of love. The river of God. The river of time.
The
river.
    The river as a metaphor for … what? Life? Depth? Spirituality? Eternity? Music? Meaning?
    And the river is wide. And the river is deep.
    What year was that?
    I sit on the shore where so many have sat before. A fire burns I didn’t start. Undressing I walk in … to the place where my life began. Submerged. Baptized. In drowning I live.
    Does salvation await him at the river? Can he make it there if it does?
    His best chance for finding the river will come with daylight. It’s only a chance. Nothing more. Odds aren’t very good. And he’ll have to survive the night to even get those.
    F og-covered forest.
    Cloud-shrouded orb. Diffused, intermittent