Mason

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.

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.