Jason

I reached up to my own head automatically.

The hair on the rock looked short, some strands about my length, some longer.

I glanced at Becca's frayed ends, at the way Dylan's shaggy cut unevenly brushed his collar.

It could have been from any of us, or none of us.

That almost made it worse.

"'We have to go,' Aaron said."

Her voice was oddly calm now, like she'd moved past fear into something more solid.

I don't care which direction, but we are not staying another night in this spot.

In the end, math decided it.

Dylan reluctantly admitted that, yes, if we pushed hard and didn't stop for a long lunch, we could reach a point on the map where the canyon widened and a side trail cut up toward a gravel road in two days instead of four.

It would mean bailing on the loop, but we'd be out of the deep part of the canyon sooner.

Fine, he said tightly.

We'll cut up early, hit the road and hitch back to the truck, but we're moving fast.

No bullcrap today.

We broke camp with a speed born of terror and stuffed any thought of leave-no-trace aesthetics into the back of our brains.

I watched the little clump of hair on the rock as we walked away until a bend in the canyon hid it from view.

I had the sudden vivid image of a long, grayish hand reaching down from above to pick it up, bringing it to a mouth filled with too many teeth.

The day turned brutal.

The sun felt closer, like somebody had dialed it up a notch.

The heat came not just from above, but from the red walls around us, radiating back in waves.