Narrator

That was the logic.

It was also the only plan we had.

The trail got worse.

It wasn't maintained.

It was old and half-swallowed.

Blazes were rare.

We followed the creek when we could because water at least gives you direction, until it doesn't, until it splits or drops into a ravine and you have to choose.

Rain started in the late afternoon, thin at first, then harder, turning leaves slick, turning mud into grease.

The hollow air turned cold.

Our clothes clung.

Our packs felt heavier.

We heard whistles behind us again.

Far, then closer, then far.

Sometimes one note, sometimes two.

Once I heard what sounded like my own name, faint and carried on the wind, and it made my chest go tight because I knew I was starting to lose the ability to trust my ears.

At dusk, we made a mistake.

We came to a place where the creek split around a big boulder, and the trail, if it existed, wasn't obvious.

The rain had erased footprints.

Darkness was coming fast under the canopy.

We stood there, panting, turning in a circle, trying to pick the correct branch to follow.