Ben blows her whistle with way too much enthusiasm. The sound cuts through the park like a tiny air raid siren. A jogger fifty yards away actually stops and looks over.
“Good,” Marco says, unbothered. “Again.”
She does it twice more. Frederick gets his own whistle blast for moral support.
Then Marco clips a whistle around my neck. His fingers brush my collarbone as he adjusts the lanyard and I swear to God my entire nervous system lights up like a Christmas tree.
When a casual touch during a safety drill makes you want to climb him and you’re grateful for the distraction because it’s the only thing keeping you from spiraling.
Focus, Jess.
Actually, no.
Stay exactly this distracted.
It’s working.
I clear my throat. “What about the bear sprays? Where do we put them?”
“Two cans.” He holds them up. “One in the glove box of the car. One in your bag. Check the expiry.”
I inspect the canister he hands me. It’s bright red with aggressive warning labels in three languages. “Valid through next June.”
“Good. Now the rules.” He taps the laminated card. “If we see a bear, what do we do?”
Ben pipes up immediately. “We make ourselves big and yell!”
“And we back away slowly,” I add, reading off the card. “No running. No eye contact. And we have our bear spray ready.”
“Exactly.” Marco’s looking at me now with that searching gaze that makes me feel like I’m being evaluated for something far more important than a practice drill. “You good with all this?”
No.
Absolutely not.
Because we’re standing at the edge of a tree line and even though this is barely wilderness, barely even qualifies as “outdoors” by most standards, my chest is getting tight and my palms are starting to sweat.
When your childhood trauma decides to make a surprise appearance during a totally routine safety exercise.
I force a smile. “Yeah, of course. Just not super outdoorsy, you know? More of a ‘brunch and museums’ girl.”
It’s my standard deflection. The same line I’ve been using for years whenever someone suggests a weekend cabin trip or a day hike. Like it’s a personality preference and not a bone-deep terror that lives in my nervous system.
Marco’s watching me a little too closely. “You sure?”
“Totally.” I adjust my bag on my shoulder. “So what’s next? Do we actually walk into the woods or is this more of a theoretical exercise?”
“We walk the perimeter,” he says. “Stay within sight of the car. Practice the whistle signals and the protective triangle positioning.”
The protective triangle. Right. That’s the formation where Marco’s in front, I’m with Ben in the middle, and Jag trails behind near the car. It’s the same setup they use for school pickup but adapted for “wilderness.”
As if Jag would ever trail behind in an actual wilderness situation. Then again, I’m not entirely sure if he’d bring security with him while hiking or not.
Well, whatever. I’ll take it. At least if I’m watching Marco’s shoulders I’m not watching the trees.
We start walking. The path is paved for maybe twenty yards before it turns to packed dirt. Trees close in on either side. Nothing dramatic. Nothing objectively scary.
But my breathing’s already shifting. Getting faster. Shallower.
