Narrator

They're hurting, she whispered.

In that moment, the terrible shape of it clicked into place.

Luke hadn't been pulled by the big thing.

Not necessarily.

He'd been pulled by people.

The mimic voice, my voice, had been bait.

The whistle patterns weren't superstition, they were coordination, and we were standing in the open, in a split creek bed, arguing with our fear while men moved through the trees like they owned the dark.

Tessa grabbed my arm.

We move, she said, right now.

I resisted, because leaving Luke felt like killing him myself.

But then, from the brush where Luke vanished, I heard something heavy crash, big enough to shake water droplets off leaves, and a low, deep exhale that vibrated through the ground.

And then faintly, Luke shouted once, cut off abruptly.

That sound did something to my survival brain.

It didn't make me heroic.

It made me understand that if I went in there, I wouldn't find Luke.

I'd just add another body to the hollow.

Tessa dragged me away.

We ran downhill in the rain, not caring about trails anymore, just pushing through whatever openings we could find.

Slipping, catching ourselves on saplings, coughing, sobbing in short bursts, because adrenaline and grief don't play nice together.

Behind us, somewhere in the wet trees, a voice called out in my tone again.