Chapter Four

      Gwen

      Tracy’s living room was spare and minimalist, the furniture white and earth-toned; even the landscape photos that hung on the walls were all in black-and-white. The only touch of color came from the magazines on the side table, and from the dozen or so action shots of Tracy that were scattered throughout the room. Gwen had been to Tracy’s place twice before to meet for hikes, and it seemed like there were fewer things with each visit. The house looked stripped down to the bare essentials.

      Gwen sat rigidly on the edge of the couch and sipped her coffee. She didn’t really need the stimulation—she was hyped up, had tossed and turned most of the night with thoughts of rattlesnakes and lightning and bears. In daylight she felt better, although the fears remained. She tried to assuage her guilt for not calling her mother as she’d promised—she’d left a message instead on Alene’s voice mail at work—as well as her larger guilt for missing work. This was Thursday, and she normally had two afternoon groups. Most of the kids would be fine skipping a week, but she worried about Sandra Gutierrez. I’ll call her on Tuesday, Gwen told herself. I’ll touch base with her as soon as I’m back.

      “You’re going to boil in those jeans.”

      Gwen jumped. Tracy had come back from the kitchen, bearing a tray that held a serving dish of sliced fruit and several small plates.

      “You scared me!” Gwen said. “I know, but it was cold this morning. And I’m thinking it’ll be cooler in the mountains.”

      “You’re right. Although it looks like we’re in for good weather. Highs in the seventies, lows in the low to mid-fifties.”

      Tracy sat in the armchair perpendicular to Gwen and put the plates on the coffee table. She was one of the few women Gwen knew who seemed truly at ease in her body. It had the shaped, chiseled look of someone who worked out hard, and often; and who cared about how she fueled it. Even now, as she was resting, there was something in her posture that suggested energy and movement, like all that muscle was ready to spring. This was part of why Gwen liked being around her—you wanted to know what would happen next, and if lucky, you might be included. Tracy’s classes at SportZone were always full, popular with men and women alike. Her allure wasn’t really sexual, or at least Gwen didn’t think so. Tracy had a fine enough face—high cheekbones, strong nose and lips, bright hazel eyes—and straight black hair she usually wore in a ponytail. But it didn’t quite add up. Some other quality skewed her looks toward severe. Sometimes, when she focused on something and Gwen saw her in profile, Gwen thought that she looked like a wolf.

      “Am I going to be warm enough at night?”

      “You brought a base layer, right? Plus that down sleeping bag. You’ll be fine. That reminds me—I should go get my pack.”

      Tracy stood up and went into the other room, closing the door behind her. Gwen looked at the fruit—the perfectly cut wedges of honeydew and watermelon, cantaloupe and mango—and spooned a few pieces onto a plate. It occurred to her that she’d never seen more of Tracy’s house than what was visible to her right now—the bright, airy living room, the little bathroom, the kitchen. She had seen the garage where Tracy kept a huge amount of canned and boxed food, containers of water, a generator—but most of the inside seemed off-limits. The door to what she assumed was Tracy’s bedroom was always closed, as was the door to the stairs that led to the lower floor. The house looked small from the street—one-story, wood-framed, with a few succulents planted half-heartedly in neat ceramic pots. But from the side you could see that it spilled down the hill, another floor below the first one. Down in the yard there was a separate structure, which Tracy had converted into a gym. How wonderful to be able to decide what to do with your space. Someday, Gwen thought, someday I’ll have a place of my own.

      Gwen put her plate down, stood up, and walked around, looking absently at the framed action shots. Each of them captured a moment of triumph or drama—Tracy on the summit of a snow-covered peak, ice axe extended above her head; Tracy hanging precipitously off a rock face; Tracy and a dark-haired man in a kayak negotiating rough-looking rapids. She had the same joyous, self-satisfied look in all of them, the kind of expression that Gwen had seen in pictures of hunters displaying their kill. Tracy was alone in some of the photos, in others with the dark-haired man; in two, with a young blond woman. Was the man Tracy’s lover? The woman? It was impossible to tell.

      Gwen sat back down and picked up the first magazine on the stack, an issue of Outside with a rock climber on the front. The magazine beneath it caught her eye. It was called Modern Survival, and on the cover there was a couple in full camouflage gear, the man holding a rifle, the woman a radio. Gwen picked it up carefully and flipped through the pages—there were pictures of people canning food, starting a fire with sticks and flint, of exercises for women to build upper-body strength so they could fire high-caliber assault weapons. How to Recognize a Bomb Threat, one article promised. Another was titled, Pedal Power: Generate Your Own Electricity—With Your Bike! In the back there were ads for pre-built emergency shelters, food storage sheds, bullet-proof vests, and boots that could walk through fire. Gwen put the magazine back on the pile and dropped Outside on top of it, as if replacing the lid of a container whose contents she wished she hadn’t seen.

      Just then Tracy returned, carrying her gray and red pack. She set it down next to Gwen’s by the door. It looked svelte, no lumpy spots like Gwen’s lavender pack, which was so stuffed she thought the seams might burst. Gwen’s sleeping bag dangled from the bottom of her pack; Tracy’s bag was nowhere in sight.

      “That looks very . . . efficient,” said Gwen. “You could probably teach me a thing or two about packing.”

      “We can do a pack check when everyone’s here.”

      Everyone, Gwen knew, had reduced in size—the Pattersons had dropped out at the last minute because the wife was sick. She wasn’t sure whether a foursome would be better or worse than the original group of six, but then the doorbell rang, and Tracy was greeting her real estate agent, Oscar Barajas, with a thumping jock-like hug. They sounded like teenage boys: “What’s up, Oscar?” “Nothing. Just getting ready to kick some mountain ass!” And Gwen suddenly felt like the grown-up in the group, worried that she wouldn’t fit in. Maybe