Waiting for Unicorns by Beth Hautala

ways behind Simon. I kept pausing to listen for growling noises, or the sound of branches breaking, just in case something was trying to sneak up on us.
    After we’d gone a bit farther, he stopped and turned around. “Come on already!”
    â€œComing,” I said, glancing up. I wasn’t sure what I’d do if I actually saw a bear. I read once that if you were ever attacked by a bear, you’re supposed to drop down and cover the back of your head with your arms. But this seemed pretty stupid to me. In theory, it was supposed to protect the most vital parts of your body. But I figured if a bear was interested in any of my vital parts, covering the back of my head with my hands wasn’t going to make much of a difference.
    Simon waited while I scrambled up after him, carefully navigating a pile of rocks. We’d left the road, but the footpath we were on seemed well traveled enough.
    â€œI doubt we’ll see any,” the Guitar Boy said. “Bears, I mean.”
    Dad told me my face was easier to read than the alphabet, and I frowned. Simon seemed to know exactly what I was thinking, and that was a little embarrassing.
    â€œHow do you know?” I asked. “How do you know we won’t see any . . . bears?” I lowered my voice at the end in case they were listening and felt inclined to investigate.
    The Guitar Boy seemed pretty confident, but I wasn’t that trusting.
    â€œIt’s too early,” he said, readjusting his guitar strap.
    â€œYeah, but what if we do? You don’t have a gun or
anything.
” Somewhere in the darker corners of my imagination, I was terrified I’d die beneath the claws and teeth of nanuq
.
    â€œNot true.” The Guitar Boy paused, digging into his pocket, and tossed me a small black canister.
    I caught it clumsily and turned it over. “Are you
serious
?”
    The small red-and-yellow label read
Mace.
The Guitar Boy laughed at my skepticism and continued on ahead.
    I should have just left it at “gun.” He didn’t have a gun. End of story. Pepper spray didn’t make me feel any safer. And now I didn’t know whether to try and find my way back alone or follow him. We were out in the middle of nowhere, about to walk right between a mother bear and her cubs for all I knew. I’ve heard this is about as close to a death wish as a person could get, and our only defense was a can of Mace. Suddenly, I wanted to pick up the pace.
    â€œHere—maybe you should hang on to it.” I hurried after Simon, thrusting the Mace into his hand, and he shoved it back into his pocket before throwing his arm over my shoulder.
    â€œDon’t you worry,” he said. “I’ve got you covered.”

    We walked for another half hour or so with no sign of bears, and then finally, cresting a little rise, I got my first look at Miss Piggy.
    â€œThere she is.” The Guitar Boy nodded.
    â€œSo, not a Muppet,” I said.
    â€œNope. Not a Muppet. An airplane. Or what’s left of an airplane. An old Curtiss C-46 Commando. She was operated by Lamb Air back in the sixties and seventies,” he said. “She crashed when her left engine failed just outside of Churchill in 1979. The wreck is a pretty big deal here. People visit the site all the time.”
    â€œWhy is she called Miss Piggy?”
    â€œBecause she was able to carry so much freight,” he said. “And because at one time, she actually hauled a load of pigs. Or so the story goes.”
    I wrinkled my nose. That couldn’t have been a pleasant flight.
    â€œShe used to be red and white,” the Guitar Boy said. “But one side of her was painted gray several years ago when she was used as part of a movie set.”
    Miss Piggy had crashed on the edge of a rise, in a pile of glacial rock. Her wings were barely attached to her body, collapsing down the slope. She looked like a giant bird splayed across the ground. And