Skink--No Surrender by Carl Hiaasen

was a classic.
    “They didn’t make you read this in school? That’s disgraceful!” he boomed.
    I turned on my LED pen and opened to the first chapter. He settled in by the smoky ashes and took out a regular flashlight. The book he’d chosen was Grizzly Years , by a man named Doug Peacock, who the governor said was a medic he’d met in Vietnam. The war was so hard on Mr. Peacock that he came back and disappeared into the mountains of Wyoming and Montana, where he lived for many years among wild grizzly bears. He didn’t take a gun along, either. True story. I felt like asking Skink if we could trade books, but I didn’t want to aggravate him.
    And, to be honest, Silent Spring was a good read. It came out back in 1962, before my father was born, but even half a century later, reading it will make you angry. Skink told me that DDT was basically outlawed after the book was published, which was an epic victory. He also said there are plenty of other chemicals that are just as bad and totally legal.
    Nobody spoke again until an hour or so before sunrise, when a deer wandered up to the camp. “Hello, you,” I said, and it dashed off.
    Darkness gave way to a soft golden glow in the east. For breakfast the governor poured some granola mix into a pan, and we ate it dry.
    My phone went off, the first whale song ever heard in those woods.
    “Malley?”
    “Hey, it’s me.” She was half mumbling.
    “You’re up early. Can you talk?”
    “Not at all.”
    “Tell me whatever you can.”
    “Nothing, Mom,” she said. “Everything’s awesome.”
    I could hear a male voice in the background. Obviously she’d told Online Talbo that she was calling her mother.
    “If you need help,” I said, “ask me about your dad.”
    “Sure. How’s Dad doing?”
    I looked at the governor, who moved his fingers like he was pulling on a piece of taffy. String out the conversation, he was telling me. Get more information.
    “If you’re still in Florida,” I said to Malley, “say something about the weather.”
    “It’s been sunny and clear, just fantastic. You guys had rain?”
    By now I was cupping the phone with both hands. “This is important, Mal. Are you still at that ivorybill place?”
    “Yeah, I saw one up in the tree this morning!” she said lightly.
    “The Choctawhatchee River, right? Like on the map we did for my project?”
    “Absolutely, Mom. I miss you, too, but this is, like, the best trip ever. Off-the-hook amazing!”
    “Listen to me,” I whispered. “I’m coming to get you.”
    “That’s so sweet.”
    Skink motioned for me to cover the phone. “Ask ifshe’s north or south of the bridge on State Road 20. Then find out how far.”
    “Mal, there’s a bridge on Road 20,” I said to her.
    “I know, Mom.”
    “Say ‘sardines’ if you’re north of there. Say ‘clams’ if you’re south.”
    “Clams. And they looked delicious.”
    “How far? Say something besides miles. Rainbows, hiccups, I don’t know …”
    “Otters,” she said. “Yesterday I saw two of ’em.”
    “Got it, Mal. Two miles south of the bridge.”
    Then the voice in the background said: “Hang up, damn it!”
    And she did.
    We rolled out at dawn. The traffic was zero. Driving on the pavement was smoother than on the logging road, and way quieter.
    “Faster, Richard,” said Skink.
    I was perched with my butt on the Steinbeck novel, my eyes jumping back and forth between the road and the dashboard gauges. When the speedometer reached fifty, the governor raised a hand.
    “Is this good?” I asked.
    “Fabulous.” He sounded groggy, which concerned me.
    “Did you take one of those pain pills?”
    “I’m sharp as a tack, sport.”
    “Good, ’cause I can’t do this alone.”
    “What’s the speed limit out here?” he asked.
    “The sign said fifty-five.”
    “Very sensible.”
    “I’d really like to keep it at fifty.”
    “You’re a model citizen, Richard. Fifty it is.”
    True to his promise, Skink plugged my