Mason

The woods on either side felt closer than they had on the trail, as if the trees leaned toward the road to listen.

We kept looking back.

We kept expecting to see antlers behind us.

We saw nothing.

That almost made it worse because it felt like it had stepped out of sight, not out of reach.

We walked until my legs went numb and then we heard an engine, low and slow, coming up the road.

A dusty pickup rounded the bend and I raised both arms without thinking.

Not to wave, but to make myself bigger, to be seen.

The truck stopped hard.

The driver leaned out, an older guy in a battered cap, eyes sharp.

He looked at our faces, at Caleb's torn jacket, at the dirt ground into our skin, and his expression changed in a way I won't forget, because it wasn't surprise.

It was recognition.

He asked us where we'd come from, and when I tried to answer, my voice cracked and I couldn't get the words out fast enough.

Caleb said, we need to get out, and the man stared past us into the trees for a long second like he was checking whether we were alone.

Then he told us to get in the bed of the truck, not the cab, and he said it like it wasn't a suggestion.

We climbed in without arguing, hands shaking, and he drove.

In the back of that truck, bouncing over ruts, I watched the treeline the whole time.

I expected to see it sprinting along the forest edge, matching our speed, staying just out of sight.

I expected to hear that voice again, to feel it trying to pull us back with a name.

The man didn't talk much.