Narrator

But Nora's question planted the first seed of doubt.

What if it was Maddie, and she'd stepped out and gotten turned around?

We'd been drinking cider.

People make dumb choices.

I swung my feet to the floor, and the cabin floor creaked loudly, like it was announcing my movement.

The voice outside stopped.

Then, after a pause long enough to feel like it had been timed, it said, It's cold.

Can you help me?

I got to the window and looked out through the gap in the curtains.

The porch light was off, and the darkness outside was complete except for a faint wash of moonlight on the gravel.

I saw no one, no flashlight, no movement, just the trees.

The voice came again and this time it was closer to the porch, right at the edge of the lightless space beyond the steps.

Please, it said, I'm lost.

Nora was behind me now, holding my arm like she could anchor me.

I remember something from the binder flickering through my mind.

If you hear a person calling for help, do not answer.

And I remember how stupid it felt, in that moment, to treat a line in a cabin binder like gospel.

If a person is lost in the woods in October, you help them.

That's the rule.

That's what good people do.