The Distance from Me to You by Marina Gessner Page A

too.”
    McKenna didn’t add that she’d had a harder time weaning herself off her phone than she’d thought she would. Last night in her room, she’d broken down and logged on to Facebook. Though she’d resisted posting anything, she’d creeped on a couple pages. All her friends were fixated on where they’d be going to college. Brendan’s page had been full of posts about Harvard. As McKenna read through them, she felt a pang of longing that was strong enough to make her go ahead and message him. The fact that he hadn’t written back yet meant that she might have to check tonight, if she got reception at her campsite.
    â€œThis is a really good compass,” Linda said. “We used the same kind in Afghanistan.”
    â€œDo you want it?” McKenna said it automatically, feeling so relaxed and pampered. As soon as the words were out she realized how much she wanted to do this, give Linda the compass. So far on the trail she’d been given meals and gift certificates for cafés in rest towns. A man her father’s age had traded his excellent rain cover for her mediocre one (he’d been a northbound thru hiker, almost done, happy to help her out on her long hike). This was her first chance to offer a little trail magic of her own.
    â€œNo way,” Linda said. “You’ve got thirteen more states to go.”
    When she put it that way, a small bit of McKenna’s well-restedness fluttered away on the morning breeze. Thirteen more states to go! That was like the whole original United States. She wondered what George Washington or Thomas Jefferson would say to a seventeen-year-old girl walking all the way from one tip of the country to the other.
    â€œBut I feel like there’s a magnetic field in my body that just makes it go bonkers,” she said. “I’m never going to be able to figure it out.”
    Linda laughed as she handed the compass back. “You keep it,” she said. “Your phone could get broken or the battery could die. With the compass, it’s like CPR. You think you don’t know how to do it, but when you have to, you’ll remember this little lesson.”
    McKenna had paid almost zero attention to the lesson, but she took the compass back and shoved it inside the front pocketof her pack. The shuttle that took hikers back to the trail pulled up, and Linda and McKenna climbed on board.
    â€œYou shouldn’t feel bad if you don’t make it all the way to Georgia,” Linda said. “It’s not exactly easy. I met this one northbounder at Harpers Ferry, he was feeling bad about giving up, but hell, he made it halfway. Over a thousand miles. That’s more than almost anyone walks.”
    McKenna couldn’t believe it. Even Linda—her fellow warrior woman!—was doubting her. “No way,” she said. “I’m not stopping at Harpers Ferry. I’m going all the way to Georgia.”
    Linda nodded, but McKenna could tell she wasn’t convinced. All along the way, people kept telling McKenna not to feel bad when she failed. She’d gotten a late start, they all told her, not adding what they were obviously thinking:
She’s just a girl.
But McKenna wasn’t worried, and she didn’t doubt herself. Since that first dreadful day, she had steadily increased her mileage. The cut on her knee had healed to a scab and didn’t hurt at all anymore. While her pack still felt heavy—especially today, after her resupply in Andover—she was almost through Maine. The hardest state! She had climbed Katahdin, and Avery Peak, and Old Blue Mountain. In addition to the scab on her knee, her legs were covered in scratches but also beginning to cord with new muscle. Her sleeping bag would keep her warm through below-zero temperatures, and her boots were perfectly broken in and waterproof. Even if it snowed in the fall farther south, she was ready.
    Plus, she’d had a