I can see a long ways, between the trees. The forest park stretches eight miles across and our house is somewhere in the middle. It goes up a mile from our house to fields and farmhouses and then slants down steep for a mile the other way, to the road and the city, the railyard and all the metal pieces and trucks and storage containers that Father says people can live inside. The pale green of the St. Johns Bridge, stretching across the river to the Safeway and the library and everything on that side. A long ship in the river with a red line around it, close along the water.
A rustle beneath me now and the branch below shivers, tips out, Father's hand showing and then his voice sounding.
"Where's my girl?" he says.
"Up high," I say.
By the time I'm down the green Coleman stove is out on its flat stone and the kettle is on it, the stove's blue flame spitting and catching. You have to listen closely so the water doesn't boil away since Father took the whistler off the spout.
Breakfast is cold oatmeal and dried apricots and hot water to drink.
"Heading into the city today," he says.
"Tomorrow," I say. "It's Tuesday today."
"We're low on things," he says. "Milk powder, oatmeal. Your appetite keeps growing."
"I'm growing," I say.
"Exactly," he says and he's smiling, the lines all around his eyes. "Anyways," he says, "the thing about schedules and routines is they're good to have for you but you don't want everyone to be able to predict you, either."
We change into our city clothes. Our forest clothes are darker so no one can see us and they can get dirtier but if someone sees you like that in the city they think all sorts of things. I put on my tan blouse and brown pants and braid back my hair.
"Beware of all enterprises that require new clothes," Father says. He laughs and pulls his shirt over his head and I see my name, Caroline, tattooed on his arm up high on his shoulder in cursive letters and then he buttons on his pale yellow city shirt with the collar.
Father's red frame pack has the metal wrapped with black tape so it won't shine. My pack is blue and has no metal. In the men's camp they let their garbage pile up but we don't. We carry it out in our packs, inside plastic bags. I put Randy in too with his head sticking out through the zipper and we're ready to go.
"Sweetheart," Father says, a name I like.
He has a book in one hand, he always carries a book. For me the encyclopedias are too heavy and the dictionary is not good to read since it keeps you going back and forth without ever slowing down to tell you enough about a thing which is not a way I like to read.
It's pretty in the morning walking down our secret path under the trees and the sun. You can buy a map of all the trails of the forest park but our paths won't be on it. Our paths run along next to some of those paths and fire lanes and trails for city people but they are different. I am behind Father and his hair is getting longer now so he's pressed it down with water. It is black and dark gray.
"How come," I say, "when I cut your hair you say the birds take the hair and use it in their nests and you still make us go so far away from home when only the birds are going to see it and then move it around?"
"We just do," he says.
The leaves are like lace, the sun shining through. Red berries grow on the bushes. We climb over deadfalls, their roots up in the sky. Some trees fall into other trees and never hit the ground but rest like the hypotenuse of a triangle slanting in the air. In the wind they groan as they rub against the tree that holds them or in a storm they can come crashing down.
Father stops walking. "I have a feeling," he says. He sniffs the air.
"Why?" I say.
"Not a good feeling," he says. "Let's go back."
"We're almost to the bridge," I say. "We're almost out of milk powder. You said."
"Caroline," he says. "Listen to me."
"Yes," I say. "I know. I just thought."
"There are more important things to do today," he says. "Not in these clothes, though. We have to change."
With the wire I carried from the salvage yard we build a hiding place, in case we have to hide if someone is after us. Most times it is better not to let people know we are here at all. We scoop out and dig down between trunks where many trees have fallen. Between the trunks, beneath where the dead sharp branches stretch out we dig hollows a little bigger than our bodies. We scoop and then we lay down to test the size and then we scoop out some more. Once they're big enough Father takes the wire and plastic bags and piles dirt and leaves and sticks on top like a trapdoor that looks like the ground and covers the holes. Hiding holes. I practice lifting up the cover and sliding in and Father checks to see how it looks and then he practices and I check and where he is it looks just like the ground.