"Whoa, slow down there," Bea says as I slump forward, dry-heaving into the leaves. I lift my face up, nausea causing my head to spin. I try to focus on the tree in front of us, but everything is a blur, swimming in and out of focus.

"What happened to you?" I hear her murmur. "You're half an hour alone and then you show up half-dead."

"Starving," I manage to gasp between snatches of air. Then, "Digging site... too far."

There's silence on her end. "Is it?"

I nod furiously.

"That trout must have taken us further than I thought."

"So you haven't found it?" My voice comes out as a squeak. I rock on my heels, gulping down air.

"What? Within half an hour? No chance. Come on, Jules, use your brain."

"Julian."

She pushes hair from her eyes. "Sweathead's still better."

We lapse into silence. Me trying to get blood back to my head and waiting for the dizzy feeling to pass, Bea crouched next to me examining her nails and primping her hair. It takes me a minute to realise her hands are stained a dark red.

"I found some cherries nearby."

I give a little squeal in response, fingers clutching the leaves around me. Cold sweat drips from the end of my nose, and a slight tremor courses through my body.

"You wait here. I'll be right back."

She dashes off, leaving me panting and physically weak. I lower myself until I'm curled among the wet leaves; my chin feeling like it's stretching, only to cough nothing but saliva.

I don't know how long it is before she comes back, but all I know is that she's propping my head up, and telling me to eat the bright red fruits she has in one hand. I cherry bursts on my tongue, an explosion of sweetness.

Bea pushes more into my hands. I eat them all. Every single last one. Some of them I swear I even eat with the stone. Everything. Soon my hands are stained a bright red, cherry stems are strewn everywhere, and I'm feeling a lot, lot better.

"Thank you," I rasp out. "You saved my life."

"Shame. I was hoping I could leave you in a ditch somewhere." I could hear the smile in her voice even if I had my eyes closed. "Think you can walk?"

It turns out I can. I'm a bit wobbly at first but holding onto the trees keeps me upright. Bea leads the way, slowly, through the trees until we get to an open clearing. Scattered around are trees with big, thin leaves. Small red beads cluster in different areas as well as the ground.

We begin to pick the cherries. I reach for the lower branches and Bea takes care of the higher ones since she can reach them. We pick hundreds, eating some, pocketing others. Soon the pockets of my jeans are bursting with squashed fruit, and sticky juice runs down my leg.

When we can't physically eat nor carry any more, we retreat back into the trees and walk out to the path by the river again. The sun has reached its climax and beats down on the earth relentlessly.

"First we have a wash," says Bea, "and then we decide what to do."

"Sounds fair," I reply.

The river, like always, welcomes us. I feel more connected to it somehow. It's always been there one way or another, inside the trout or out.

We decide to go in fully clothed. Mainly because of modesty reasons and also because the sun is so scorching hot that it'll be refreshing when we get out. I take off my jacket and lay all the cherries carefully atop it. Then I kick off my trainers, stuff my socks inside them, and cautiously dip a toe into the water.

I'm interrupted by a splash and a yell. I whip my head to where bubbles are surfacing, and then a moment of anticipation before Bea bursts from the water with a gasp.

"¡Métete!" she calls, wiping the water from her eyes. Then, realising I don't understand Spanish, "Get in!"

Mum's always said I've always been a cautious baby. I would never launch myself into activities like all the other kids. Instead, I would take a measured, calculated approach.

Today I am no different.

I sit on the bank, swing my legs in, and slide into the water with a neat splash. The water encircles about my head, leaving me deaf for a second before I break through the skin of the water, gasping at the blue sky, at the white sun.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Bea says. When I turn to her, she's smiling. Not a flicker of a smile, not a ghost of one – a real smile. One that lights up her features and causes the sun to glitter against her skin.

"Yeah," I reply. I grab a root on the bank to stop myself from being swept away with the river. "It's a lot deeper than I was expecting."

Bea doesn't reply. Instead, she's on her back, arms spread out, gazing at the sky, a look of absolute content on her face. She picks up speed, floating past me, the river guiding her way. Panic rising in my throat, I reach out to grab her, but she slips from my grasp, and I watch her speed through the water.

Then she's gone.

But I know Bea. She won't go far. And even if she did, she'd find her way back. She wouldn't just leave me and all our stuff behind.

But she already did, I think to myself as I scrabble up onto the bank and to where all our stuff lies. She could easily do it again.

My thoughts are penetrated by a peal of laughter coming from the trees. Bea appears, hair soaking wet and wrapping like tendrils around her face.

"I finally got all that blood off me," she says, flopping down next to me. "I've honestly never felt so clean."

I pop a cherry into my mouth, savouring the sweetness. "And so what now? We've had our wash; what next?"

Next to me, Bea is quiet. When I look at her, she's observing the river in front of us with great intensity. Her eyebrows furrow, nose wrinkled slightly.

"Let's think this through this time." She turns to me. "I apologise for before; I shouldn't have left you."

"We work better as a team," I admit.

"So, we know that the digging site is too far. We know the trout is out there somewhere, long gone, though. We'd never catch it up."

"So what do we do? Walk back to the digging site?" I suggest, praying that she'll say yes. Maybe, with her help, this time we'll make it without starving.

"No," she replies sharply, eyes narrowing at the distance. "We don't have enough food, and plus—" She bites her lip, looking at me—"We haven't even been gone a day. If we start travelling now, we'll never make it. At least here we've got the trees and we're already settled down." She looks at the floor. "I don't want to go back. I'll hate it if we go back."

"But you're an archaeologist in training!" I argue. "That's your job. How can you say you don't want to go back to your job?"

"It's not what I want to do." She shakes her head, eyes still glued to the floor. "My dad's always wanted me to be an archaeologist like him. He was part of the other group who found all the artefacts at the site a few months ago. And so he heard about Guy's team digging during the summer, and he enrolled me... without my consent." Her voice turns sour for the last part.

"If you don't want to be an archaeologist, then who do you want to be?" I ask softly.

"An artist," she replies, sighing.

The wind picks up, blowing through the strands of her hair. I pull my jacket closer around me.

"Then we won't go back," I say.

She looks confused. "What?"

"We're not going back to the digging site," I say the words louder, in a harsher tone. The trees behind me sway. "If it's really what you want, we won't do it."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes." I swallow, hammering the nail in place. "Yes."