Small as an Elephant: Chapters 1–6

Elephants can sense danger. They’re able to detect an approaching tsunami or earthquake before it hits.

Jack tried to take a deep breath, but the air outside was now as heavy and suffocating as the air inside the tent had been.

The decklike wooden floor creaked as he ambled—among maps and maple syrup, fishing line and Goldfish crackers, all jumbled together—to the counter, where a woman in an apron was waiting to take his order.

The only thing he knew for sure was that his mother had taken the car. She’d taken the Prius and had headed off somewhere this morning (Last night? As soon as I fell asleep?) and, although she was a good driver—in fact, that was her job, driving a shuttle for the Intown Inn—he figured anyone could speed off these twisty island roads.

He cleared off his table—leaving the newspaper for someone else to read—and walked across the street to where lots of people had pulled over to escape their cars and teeter along the tumbling, rocky shore.

It was impossible to run on this treacherous beach, and both of them laughed at the senselessness of the game.

He took off his sneakers and socks, then peeled off his shirt and carefully wrapped his phone inside it. He tucked the bundle in a dry crevice of a fairly large boulder.

Maybe once he got down to where the tide had receded, he’d even be brave enough to swim. (Though it didn’t look as if anyone else was even thinking about going near the foamy, churning water.)

Maybe once he got down to where the tide had receded, he’d even be brave enough to swim. (Though it didn’t look as if anyone else was even thinking about going near the foamy, churning water.)

The boy’s sister squealed as Jack lifted the crab into the air. It waved its pincers frantically.

They’d been at a circus, and he’d hated it—hated the chaotic music, the sudden snap of the ringmaster’s whip, the diamond-eyed clowns.

Jack had whimpered and buried his face in his mother’s neck, but he couldn’t resist peeking at the huge creature.

He was nervous about bumping into the same ranger—not sure if he could keep his voice steady, keep his eyes conveying cheerfulness.

As he walked back past the registration hut, thinking about toasting his Jet Puffs, Jack suddenly remembered the sign he’d read inside when he and his mother had registered last night: COLLECTING FIREWOOD IN PARK PROHIBITED.

He’d been lying there, playing stupid games: If he could remember all the names of the sixteen Hawthorn-owned elephants, his mother would come back. Or if he could remember the names of the rescued elephants at the Tennessee sanctuary, his mother would come back.

Aiden’s mother was at the faucet; he recognized her red hair, pulled back in a ponytail. For a moment he thought of turning back, waiting until she left, but he was afraid he’d already been seen and didn’t want to appear more conspicuous.

“Can we stay longer if we want?” he blurted, hoping he sounded enthusiastic and not worried.

During a lull in the conversation, Jack took out his phone and tried again to reach his mom.

What if she was in trouble? What if she was like that woman who somehow drove into a ravine and survived for a whole week in her car without food?

They walked down a boardwalk to a small, sandy beach. Aiden’s family gravitated to the far left, at the trees’ edge, where rocks formed a cozy nook and there was shade.

They walked down a boardwalk to a small, sandy beach. Aiden’s family gravitated to the far left, at the trees’ edge, where rocks formed a cozy nook and there was shade.

Jack suddenly realized he’d been staring at the cooler and felt his face go warm. His stomach was cavernous, demanding more than a few slices of cheese and salami.

“Let’s swim first,” said Aiden, turning and running into the water.
Jack followed reluctantly.

Jack lay down at the base of a tree and bawled.

“Huh. The car’s gone,” Jack announced as soon as they were in sight of his tent, hoping he sounded genuinely surprised. “She must have gone to get more medicine. She said she would probably have to do that.”

His mom, who was wearing lots of silky scarves, was bouncing around, talking to people in the station. When he glanced over, he saw her whispering something into a homeless woman’s ear. The woman smiled, rocked on her heels, and shouted gibberish.

Standing in the village green, he realized that “searching” was not a plan. You couldn’t just walk around a big island, hoping to find someone. He needed to do this logically.

With one last look at the bustling streets, Jack turned and walked back out of town.

He thought of rolling over and flattening himself against the ground—it seemed as if he would be less vulnerable, more capable of springing up and running, in that position—but he couldn’t risk being heard.

Scooting up in the sleeping bag in slow, carefully measured increments, Jack reached for his backpack, stretching out his whole arm.