Into the Wild. Beth Ciotta

as she walked—no, floated—into the terminal.

      She dragged a rolling camera bag behind her, chalking up the zombie-like feeling to sleep deprivation. As exhausted as she was, she hadn’t been able to sleep on the long journey from Indiana to Ecuador. Between the all-nighter she’d pulled preparing for her trip and the extensive travel day, she’d been awake for thirty-eight hours. Presently, she was operating on adrenaline and gallons of Pepsi.

      River’s first two thoughts as she navigated the bustling terminal: I wish I spoke Spanish, and God, I have to pee.

      She ducked into the first bathroom she saw to take care of the second. As for the first, according to her speedy but thorough research, although the predominant language of Ecuador was Spanish, English was spoken in most major visitor centers. Quito, the capital, certainly qualified as a tourist destination, as did Baños. Situated at the base of a large volcano, the small town, some four hours south, was famous for its basilica, hot springs and its accessibility to the jungle. Although Henry had mailed his journal from Baños—also known as the gateway to the Amazon—ten to one he was in the jungle. Ten to one she’d be hiring a guide. She’d just make sure the guide doubled as a translator.

      She had it all planned. Well, maybe not all, but everything within her power. She found comfort in knowing where she was and where she was going and what she was going to do. As long as she had a plan and a map, she was safe.

      River exited the stall and moved to the sink. Unfortunately, she also glanced at the mirror. She looked as horrible as she felt. Pale, clammy skin, dark circles under her bloodshot eyes, limp curls escaping her stubby ponytail.

      She needed a shower and sleep—maybe not in that order. She needed to get to the hotel she’d booked for the night before she dropped dead. Her head hurt and now her chest was tight. Plus, there was the whole jelly-limb, zombie-like thing going on. Not to mention she was feeling anxious about venturing into the jungle and melancholy about Professor Bovedine.

      Dead.

      Just like with her mom, who’d perished on one of Henry’s remote expeditions, River was having a hard time accepting Bovedine’s demise. Death was bad enough, but when it was senseless or could have been avoided…

      If only Bovedine hadn’t returned home ahead of schedule. Had Mrs. Robbins called him at the university to tell him about the arrival of Henry’s package? Had he been in a hurry to view the contents? What if the package wasn’t buried in the ransacked mess? What if the burglars had taken it? Although why would they, unless the contents were valuable?

      The more she thought about it, the more she wanted to know what Henry had sent Bovedine. Unfortunately, Mrs. Robbins, who’d considered her employer of twenty years a friend, was an emotional basket case, and Professor Bovedine’s funeral was scheduled for tomorrow. Bad enough River wasn’t attending, she wasn’t about to add to the housekeeper’s grief by nagging her about the missing package. She knew River was keen to know the contents. The woman would call as soon as she found it. If she found it. And if she didn’t…

      River nixed the idea that whatever Henry had entrusted to Professor Bovedine was forever lost. Obsessing wouldn’t do.

      Shoving aside dark thoughts, she washed her hands once, twice and then splashed cool water on her face. Slightly refreshed, she used her elbow to manipulate the towel dispenser—a quirk she’d picked up from Grandma Franklin. “Public restrooms are infested with germs,” the woman was fond of saying. “Never touch surfaces and never, ever sit on the toilet seat.” She’d drilled the notions into River until she not only believed but practiced the rituals. If she did touch something, she attacked the germs before they attacked her. “Better safe than sorry” was almost as common a cliché in her family as, “It’s for your own good.”

      Swear to God, the next person who said anything close to that was going to get the toe of her all-weather trekking boot up their…

      Well, at the very least she’d tell them to mind their own beeswax. Playing it safe had cost her a would-be husband and saddled her with a business she wasn’t even all that crazy about.

      Irritated now, River powdered her face and applied tinted balm to her lips. Ridiculous, since she planned on heading straight to her hotel and dropping into bed, but what if she miraculously ran into David? Stranger things had happened. Like her father and her ex being in the same foreign region at the same time. Not that she wanted to impress David. The plan was to give him a piece of her mind. To say all the things she should have said when he’d humiliated her in front of the preacher and thirty-eight wedding guests. She had a lot of questions, too. She wanted answers. Needed closure. She didn’t want to reconcile with David, although the more she thought about it, maybe she did.

      She’d used that very excuse for zipping off to South America when she’d spoken to Ella. And then again with her friend Kylie. “I’m going to get back my life. I’m going to fight for the man I love.”

      Romantic saps, they’d believed her. Although Kylie had insisted on hooking River up with her brother Spenser McGraw, who, as fate would have it, was also in Peru. “He knows the area,” she’d said. “You don’t. It’s unsafe for a woman to travel in that region alone.”

      Maybe so. But no way, no how did she want to “hook up” with Spenser McGraw. The man hosted a treasure hunter show for the Explorer Channel.

      Beware of the hunters.

      She’d thanked Kylie for her thoughtfulness, but adamantly declined. “I don’t want to inconvenience anyone.” (True) “I know what I’m doing.” (Lie)

      Unfortunately, Kylie was bullheaded, insisting she had River’s best interest at heart, which only irritated River more. Did everyone view her as fragile? The phone call had ended badly, with Kylie questioning River’s state of mind and River doubting Spenser’s integrity. The moment she’d realized she’d hurt Kylie’s feelings, she’d apologized and hung up.

      Before she made things worse.

      River felt bad, but her blurted insult had come from an honest place. She’d never met Spenser, but she knew his type. If he visited his family twice a year, that was a lot. His preoccupation with legendary treasures and his career kept him in the field. McGraw was cut from the same cloth as Henry, therefore Kylie had cut him off at the knees. The man was a home-grown local celebrity, yet she was probably the only person in the county, heck, the state, who’d never seen his show. She had no interest whatsoever in a self-absorbed adventurer like Spenser McGraw. How Kylie worshipped her brother, even when she cursed him, was beyond River. Obviously they shared some sort of bond that River had never experienced with Henry. Ever.

      Melancholy and angry, River freed her hair of the elastic band, fluffed her curls and reevaluated her appearance.

      Lack of sleep. Jet lag. Frayed nerves.

      “This is as good as it gets.”

      She slipped her makeup bag into the pocket of her sling travel pack, pulled out her hand sanitizer and squirted. Airport regulation had allowed her three ounces. She was almost out. Luckily, she had a few larger bottles packed in her big duffel, along with other crucial necessities, including sunscreen, bug spray and antimalarial drugs. Ella would call her paranoid. River preferred cautious. People died from tropical diseases. She’d almost been one of those people. She didn’t remember anything about her battle with malaria—she’d only been two—but her family had drilled the fiasco into her head. Along with the time she’d gotten sun poisoning in Egypt, attacked by fire ants in Thailand and lost in Mexico.

      Suddenly fearful about being separated from her suitcase, River hustled out of the bathroom and toward baggage claim. Thank God for the diagrams on the signs. As long as she had direction. As long as she knew where to go.

      Her head throbbed, her chest ached. It couldn’t be a relapse, she calmly told herself. The symptoms were wrong. This was exhaustion. Lack of sleep and food. Stress. She wondered about Henry. Was he happy? Frightened? Dead?

      His journal was tucked safely in her travel pack, along with her passport, wallet, handheld GPS system