Mason

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.

Dark jacket, hood up, face not visible, still, watching.

They weren't trying to cross, they were just there.

Mason saw my expression and turned too.

He froze, and for a few seconds neither of us moved.

The distance was maybe 40 yards.

Close enough that if the figure had raised an arm, I would have seen it clearly.

Close enough that if they had shouted, we would have heard the voice.