Mason

He didn't search hard.

He just walked on, as if he knew exactly where we were and didn't need to see us.

When the footsteps faded, Mason whispered, "'He's hurting us.'"

That word settled over everything, hurting, like we were not two people making choices, but animals being guided toward a place we couldn't see.

We stayed hidden until we couldn't stand the cold anymore.

Then we crawled back up and found the trail again, farther ahead.

We started moving, slower now, terrified of another face appearing around a bend.

That evening we found a sign that should have made us feel safe.

A wooden placard nailed to a post.

Backcountry Ranger Station, 4.2 miles.

It looked official.

Clean lettering.

Correct font.

The arrow painted neatly.

It was the first normal sign we'd seen in two days.

Mason stared at it like it might be a hallucination.

A ranger station, he said, and hope broke through his voice like something that hurt.

If we can get there, we followed the arrow.

The trail narrowed, then widened again, then dropped into a darker drainage.

The undergrowth was thick.