The Distance Between Lost and Found by Kathryn Holmes Read Free Book Online Page B

he’s thinking hard. Or nervous. He pops each finger, pinky to thumb, on his left hand, and then repeats the sequence on the right. Then he shakes his hands out like he’s loosening the joints back up.
    â€œGross,” Rachel says, and Jonah looks up, startled, like he didn’t realize what he was doing.
    â€œSorry,” he says. “So—should we eat? We should eat. Let’s eat.”
    They take inventory. Jonah has one more peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Hallelujah has an orange juice from breakfast and the twelve-pack of energy bars she brought for the week. Rachel has a banana, two energy bars, and a can of Diet Coke.
    â€œWish I didn’t eat two sandwiches earlier,” Jonah mutters, staring at their small pile of supplies.
    â€œWell, you did skip breakfast,” Hallelujah answers.
    He blinks at her, like he’s surprised she noticed, and Hallelujah feels her face grow hot. She’s glad it’s dark. She’s even more glad Jonah doesn’t say anything else.
    They split the sandwich three ways and each have an energy bar. And though they’re all still hungry, they agree to put the rest of the food away. Just in case. If they’re lucky, they won’t need it.
    Jonah shows them how to rig their bags so they’re tucked up in the nearest tree. Then they gather back around the fire. It’s only eight thirty, but in the dark, in the cold, it feels later. With the woods looming on all sides, it’s like the fire is the only thing keeping the trees and the darkness from swallowing them whole.

8
    T HEY SIT . H ALLELUJAH STARES INTO THE FIRE, WATCHING Jonah’s gently coaxed flames. And she looks at Jonah’s and Rachel’s faces. In the firelight and shadows, they look drawn. Gaunt. When Rachel catches Hallelujah looking, she smiles, and the effect is less reassuring than haunting. Hallelujah shivers.
    â€œSo what do we do now?” Rachel asks.
    â€œWell, unless y’all want to tell ghost stories,” Jonah says, “we go to bed. The light’ll wake us up in the morning. And the earlier we get up and start walking, the earlier we get home. Right?”
    â€œRight,” Hallelujah echoes. It does sound right, but it also sounds hollow, like something you say to keep up the troops’ morale. Not necessarily a bad thing. She tries a joke of her own: “So, who wants what side of the bed?”
    Jonah lets out a “Heh” and Hallelujah feels a spark of pleasure: she made him laugh.
    â€œCan I sleep in the middle?” Rachel asks. “I’m really cold. And I—I have to, um—” A deep breath. A quick murmur: “I have to go to the bathroom.”
    Just like that, Hallelujah has to go too. Badly. They’ve gone in the woods before. Earlier today, in fact. But that was daylight.
    â€œI’ll go with you,” she tells Rachel. “And then you can stay with me while I—”
    â€œGreat.”
    They move away from the fire, out of the clearing. Each step feels colder and more vulnerable. No way to judge what they’re about to step on. Just big tree-shapes in the darkness ahead and the occasional shiny leaf catching the moonlight.
    Behind them, Jonah starts singing. To himself, while he tends the fire. Or to them, to remind them they’re not alone. His voice is reassuring. Human, in this wildness.
    It’s also beautiful. Low, deep, like an old-fashioned country singer. Rich in tone. Twangy, but not too much. He sounds like a mix of Clint Black and Conway Twitty—and thinking that makes Hallelujah smile a little, because Jonah’s the reason she knows who those guys are in the first place.
    Hearing him sing takes her right back to ninth-grade choir. The two of them sang a duet in the holiday concert that year. “O Holy Night.” It’s one of her best memories.
    Now he’s singing “Rocky Top.” But not the twangy bluegrass version. Not the