Gathering his nerve now, he leaned out over the raging water, grasping the hand trolley. He stared past his white knuckles at the dense foliage over on the bad man’s side of the river, drew in a deep inhale, and leapt. He rocketed along the line, eyes watering, spray flicking up to catch his legs. He tumbled onto the muddy far bank and found his feet quickly, unwilling to be caught letting his guard lapse. After confirming the folding knife’s presence in his pocket, he scrambled down toward the shoal where they’d eaten lunch two days ago. It seemed like two years. Sand sucked at his shoes as he waded across, and then he trotted up the rise through a spray of storm-battered white orchids and found the camping toilet, positioned like a hallowed object on the plateau. He crept to the rotting log at the edge and squinted through the downpour into the canyon. The house crouched below, nestled into the hillside, the windows dark. The steak knife, once unfolded, fit the counters of his hand.
