Mason

He just retreated a few steps, and then stood there again, watching us.

Eyes narrowed now but still steady.

Mason grabbed my arm.

Move.

We ran.

As much as you can run on a slick trail with packs and wet boots.

We half ran, half stumbled forward, away from him, hearts hammering, trying not to fall on roots and break something.

Behind us, I heard him move, not sprinting but following, letting us burn ourselves out.

We reached a bend where the trail dipped into brush.

We threw ourselves off the trail into thick ferns and downed branches, crawling on hands and knees until we were deep enough that the trail was out of sight.

We lay there, mud soaking into our clothes, trying to breathe quietly.

A minute passed, two.

Then we heard footsteps on the trail above us, slow, patient.

The man stopped near where we'd left the trail.

We couldn't see him through the ferns, but we could hear him breathing now, faint and controlled.

Then in a voice that was almost conversational, he said, The words were calm, not shouted, not angry, like he was stating a fact.

Mason squeezed his eyes shut like he was trying to wake from a dream.

I held my breath.

The man took a step, then another, along the trail.

He didn't come down into the ferns.