I am still laughing when Tristan releases the second arrow, which hits the target right in the middle. As do the third and the fourth. He launches the fifth one up in the air at a bird that passes over us. I yelp, covering my mouth with my hands when the bird lands on the ground, the arrow stuck in its chest. He aims the next arrow at the target again, hitting straight in the center cluster. The same with the arrow after it.
And that's when the pieces of the puzzle start coming together, one arrow at a time. His knowledge of survival skills, like building a fire from scratch and the edibility test. His nightmares.
"You were in the Army," I say.
Tristan's knuckles whiten on the bow, his jaw tightening. He lowers the bow, walking to the target to collect the arrows, and then picks up the fallen bird. Not once does he glance in my direction.
"Tristan?" I ask. "Am I right?"
He slumps on the tree trunk that serves as a bench, and hunches over the arrows, inspecting their tips.
"Yes. I was deployed in Afghanistan." His voice is freakishly calm, almost impassive. I sit next to him, a sudden wave of admiration engulfing me.
"We should find some poison to dip the tips of the arrows in," he blurts out.
His words bewilder me so that I don't have time to ponder whether he's trying to change topics or really plans to poison the arrows. "Why? That would make whatever you shoot with a poisoned arrow inedible, right?"
"Not for the animals we intend to eat, but for predators.” I know he’s thinking of the paw prints we discovered the other day. “If a jaguar makes an appearance, I'd need about five arrows to take him down. Jaguars are very fast. I'd never have time to shoot enough arrows. If the arrows are poisoned, we'll have a better chance."
"How will we find poison? I mean, most things around us are poisonous, but it's not like we can drain—”
"I don't know yet." He rests his jaw on his palm. The tuft of dark emotions in his gaze tells me he's not thinking about poison for the arrows, but a different kind of poison.
"That's what your nightmares are about, aren't they?" I ask. "Your time in the Army."
He doesn't answer, but I won't be deterred. "If there's an elephant in the room—or well, the jungle—I don't want to keep ignoring it. We can talk about things. It can be liberating." I remember the talk we had about my parents a few weeks ago, and how I felt so much freer afterward. When Tristan doesn't glance at me, much less answer, I add, "I hear you every night, you know."
That makes his head snap up. "You can hear me?"
"Yeah." His gaze holds so much anxiety and desperation that I'd like nothing better than to bury myself in the ground, ashamed that I'm intruding in a matter so private.
He swallows hard, looking away. "I'm sorry."
I blink, confused. "For what?"
"I didn't want to disturb you. I thought if I closed the door… I didn't realize I was so loud."
"You're not disturbing me. You don't have to keep sleeping in that cockpit. There is enough room in the cabin, and I don't get scared by nightmares."
He smiles sadly. "No, but you will resent me. Even if you can hear me when I'm in the cockpit, it's better if there's a door between us."
"I won't resent you. Tristan, come on, trust me on this one. You need to be able to rest. The cockpit is nowhere as comfortable as the cabin. We'll deal with those nightmares."
He glances at me, his expression unreadable. Then he hands me the bow and some arrows.
When our fingers touch, an electrical current shoots through—just like the day he told me I look good when I wear white. Only now, I realize with a jolt of my stomach, it’s even more intense. I’ve been paying attention to these reactions from him. They happen often lately. They are becoming harder to ignore, but I try my best. Something else is getting harder to ignore, too.
This sense of guilt I can’t place.
"Let's get you to shoot straight,” Tristan says in a voice that doesn’t sound quite right. “I'll deal with my nightmares."
I smile. "Let's make a deal. I let you teach me how to face the forest; you let me help you face your nightmares."
"You won't give up, will you?"
"Should I take that as a yes? You'll sleep in the cabin?"
"Fine, I will,” he says with an uneasy smile. “Now, concentrate on the target and shoot."