Mason

We came to one that looked wrong immediately.

The water was fast and brown.

A log bridge that had been on the map was gone, maybe washed out, maybe removed.

Mason stood at the bank, jaw clenched.

We can't cross here.

We could have, technically, if we were willing to wade thigh-deep in cold, moving water with heavy packs, but it would have been dangerous.

A slip could have pinned someone.

A twisted ankle out here would have been the kind of mistake that turns into a disaster.

We followed the bank upstream, looking for a safer crossing.

We found evidence of a place where someone else had crossed recently.

Scuffed mud, broken branches, a faint boot print.

We followed that sign without talking about it because we didn't have better options.

The crossing point was a narrow spot where the creek split around a midstream boulder.

Still fast, but manageable.

Mason went first, using trekking poles, moving carefully.

I followed.

The water hit my thighs and pushed hard, my boots filled with cold.

For a moment, I felt my foot slide and my stomach dropped, but I caught myself and made it.

On the far bank, I turned to look back, and my blood went cold.

There was a figure standing in the trees on the opposite side, partially hidden the way it had been in the clearing.