Mason

I didn't argue.

I didn't try to rationalize.

Because the most frightening part was that he was right.

Someone was changing signs.

Someone was altering the trail.

Someone had been close enough in the night to cut cloth off Mason's gear and leave it like a message.

We didn't take the fork the sign pointed to.

We took the direction the map told us was correct.

We used the compass to confirm the general bearing.

We walked hard, trying to outpace the feeling that we were being guided like animals down a chute.

By late afternoon, the rain turned heavier.

The trail became a ribbon of mud.

The creek crossings rose.

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.