"It was huge. Like a horse with antlers."
"That's called an elk, sweetheart," Cole said.
"It was big. Let's go!"
She took off up the trail, then stopped after ten feet and turned back, hands on her hips. "You guys are so slow."
"We're being cautious," I said.
"You're being slowpokes."
"Methodically cautious slowpokes," Cole amended.
The past three months hadn't been easy. I'd had moments, more than I wanted to admit, where the old terror came roaring back without warning.
Two weeks after Sarah's rescue, Cole had taken me on what he promised was a "gentle" hike. Twenty minutes in, the trail narrowed unexpectedly, hugging a hillside with a steep drop to the left. My vision tunneled. My breath turned to sludge in my lungs.
"I can't," I'd gasped, frozen in place. "I can't move."
Cole had stopped immediately, turning to face me. No frustration in his expression. No impatience. Just steady, calm attention.
"Look at me," he'd said. "Not down. At me."
"I'm trying."
"You're doing great. Now look at that tree root. See how it curls? Like a question mark."
"What?"
"The root. Look at it."
I'd forced my eyes to the ground, found the root he was pointing at. It did look like a question mark. A weird, gnarled question mark.
"Breathe with me," he'd continued. "In through your nose. Out through your mouth. We're not in a hurry."
"Everyone else on the trail?—"
"Can go around us. They'll live."
We'd stood there for ten minutes while hikers passed, some curious, some politely pretending not to notice. Cole had kept up a steady stream of observations until my breathing slowed and my legs unlocked.
"Okay," I'd finally said. "Okay. I can move."
"You sure?"
"No. But let's go anyway."
He'd smiled at that. "That's the spirit."
I'd never turned back. Not once. Some days were harder than others, but I'd learned to pause, to recenter, and to keep moving forward. Cole never made me feel weak. Never pressured me to go further than I could. He just stayed beside me, patient as the mountain itself.
We'd fallen into a rhythm that felt both miraculous and ordinary. Weekends were for hiking, short trails at first, gradually longer. Weekdays were for town. Cole, once a ghost who lurked in parking lots during school events, now attended them. He'd even come to my class to give a talk on wilderness safety.
"Mr. Brennan," Tommy had asked, hand waving urgently. "Have you ever been attacked by a bear?"
"Not attacked, no."
"Have you ever seen a bear?"
