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the flight plan the pilot had filed. Many hours, at maybe 160 miles an hour. Even if it was only a little off course, with that speed and time Brian might now be sitting several hundred miles off to the side of the recorded flight plan.
    And they would probably search most heavily at first along the flight plan course. They might go out to the side a little, but he could easily be three, four hundred miles to the side. He could not know, could not think of how far he might have flown wrong because he didn’t know the original course and didn’t know how much they had pulled sideways.
    Quite a bit—that’s how he remembered it. Quite a jerk to the side. It pulled his head over sharply when the plane had swung around.
    They might not find him for two or three days. He felt his heartbeat increase as the fear started. The thought was there but he fought it down for a time, pushed it away, then it exploded out.
    They might not find him for a long time.
    And the next thought was there as well, that they might never find him, but that was panic and he fought it down and tried to stay positive. They searched hard when a plane went down, they used many men and planes and they would go to the side, they would know he was off from the flight path, he had talked to the man on the radio, they would somehow know . . .
    It would be all right.
    They would soon find him. Maybe not tomorrow, but soon. Soon. Soon.
    They would find him soon.
    Gradually, like sloshing oil his thoughts settled back and the panic was gone. Say they didn’t come for two days—no, say they didn’t come for three days, even push that to four days—he could live with that. He would have to live with that. He didn’t want to think of them taking longer. But say four days. He had to do something. He couldn’t just sit at the bottom of this tree and stare down at the lake for four days.
    And nights. He was in deep woods and didn’t have any matches, couldn’t make a fire. There were large things inthe woods. There were wolves, he thought, and bears—other things. In the dark he would be in the open here, just sitting at the bottom of a tree.
    He looked around suddenly, felt the hair on the back of his neck go up. Things might be looking at him right now, waiting for him—waiting for dark so they could move in and take him.
    He fingered the hatchet at his belt. It was the only weapon he had, but it was something.
    He had to have some kind of shelter. No, make that more: He had to have some kind of shelter and he had to have something to eat.
    He pulled himself to his feet and jerked the back of his shirt down before the mosquitos could get at it. He had to do something to help himself.
    I have to get motivated, he thought, remembering Perpich. Right now I’m all I’ve got. I have to do something.

6
    Two years before he and Terry had been fooling around down near the park, where the city seemed to end for a time and the trees grew thick and came down to the small river that went through the park. It was thick there and seemed kind of wild, and they had been joking and making things up and they pretended that they were lost in the woods and talked in the afternoon about what they would do. Of course they figured they’d have all sorts of goodies like a gun and a knife and fishing gear and matches so they could hunt and fish and have a fire.
    I wish you were here, Terry, he thought. With a gun and a knife and some matches . . .
    In the park that time they had decided the best shelterwas a lean-to and Brian set out now to make one up. Maybe cover it with grass or leaves or sticks, he thought, and he started to go down to the lake again, where there were some willows he could cut down for braces. But it struck him that he ought to find a good place for the lean-to and so he decided to look around first. He wanted to stay near the lake because he thought the plane, even deep in the water, might show