Chapter One
Trista
Natealwaysmadethislook so easy.
I didn’t hike with my brother often, but whenever I did, we never got lost. Now I’m standing in the middle of an overgrown trail, sweat prickling at the base of my neck, realizing that I haven’t seen a trail marker in at least a mile.
I stare into the trees surrounding me, looking for one with a splash of paint on the trunk. There’s nothing.
I kick a small rock in frustration, sending it sailing into the trees.
“I hate this,” I grumble.
I likeclearsigns. Neatly drawn blueprints. Not dots of paint on random trees.
I can practically hear Nate laughing at me from beyond the grave. He was a wanderer. A free spirit. And I’msonot.
The late afternoon sun slants through the pines, casting long shadows across the path. Pine needles crunch under my boots. Somewhere above me, a bird calls out, sharp and insistent, like a warning. The air is thinner up here than I expected, each breath pulling deeper into my lungs. The scent of sun-warmed pine sap hangs heavy around me.
I stop and turn slowly, scanning the trees again. The path behind me is narrower than I remember, packed dirt fading into rock and scrub. Ahead, the trail looks clearer. More worn.
I must be on the right trail, I tell myself as I step forward.
The footing changes quickly. The dirt thins, replaced by loose stone and uneven slabs of rock that tilt at odd angles. Lichen covers some of the stones in pale green patches. The incline steepens just enough to make my calves burn. I slow, adjust my balance, and keep going.
“This is fine,” I mutter, channeling my brother’s voice.Take chances. Don’t overthink it.
The pep talk doesn’t help, but I forge ahead anyway. What other choice do I have?
The rock under my boot shifts. Just a little. Enough to spike my pulse and make my body freeze in place.
I’m halfway up a rocky slope that feels steeper now that I’m standing still. Above me, the rock face rises at an angle I don’t love. Below me, the drop is just enough to guarantee a broken bone or two.
Shit. This is not good.
I test my footing carefully. The stone moves again.
Okay. No.
I press my palm to the rock, breathing slowly, the urn in my pack suddenly feeling heavier than it did ten minutes ago, as ifI’m being pulled down by the weight of my brother’s judgment from the afterlife.
Judgement was never Nate’s style, but I know he’d be disappointed that I put myself in this kind of danger just to spread his ashes.
“Think, Tris,” I whisper.
I try to remember what he would’ve told me.Shift your weight. Don’t rush. Don’t panic.
A voice cuts through the quiet. The voice of someone very muchalive.
“Don’t move,” it commands.
I flinch, heart slamming against my ribs.
Below me, a man stands on solid ground, one hand braced against a tree, eyes locked on me like he’s been here the whole time. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, and dressed in neutral tones that blend into the mountain so well it’s unsettling. There’s a radio clipped to his belt and a patch on his chest I can’t read from here.
His jaw is set, expression focused but not harsh. There’s something about the way he holds himself, completely still, completely certain, that makes my pulse slow down just a fraction. If anyone can help me, it’s this guy.
“I need you to stay exactly where you are while I figure out the best path to get you down, okay?”
