"Then I'll have to be persuasive," I say.
I leave before he can respond.
The forest is quiet except for the sound of my footsteps on fallen leaves and the occasional call of the search dogs in the distance.
I've been hiking for fifty-three minutes.
Following the trail northwest, guided by the dogs' initial tracking and my own reading of the terrain.
Looking for signs—broken branches at shoulder height, disturbed undergrowth, scuff marks on rocks where someone might have lost their footing.
Small signs that someone passed this way.
Someone small and desperate and running for her life.
The temperature has dropped noticeably.
I can see my breath now, white puffs in the dimming light.
My jacket keeps me warm but I can feel the cold seeping in around the edges.
Eden is out here in just a cashmere sweater.
The thought makes me walk faster, pushing through undergrowth that catches at my clothes, over rocks that threaten to turn my ankle.
Four miles.
I can make four miles in under ninety minutes if I push.
At the seventy-minute mark, I reach the creek where the dogs lost her trail.
I study both banks carefully.
The water is moving fast, swollen from recent rain.
Cold enough that crossing it would be miserable.
But there—on the far bank, partially obscured by moss—a partial footprint in the mud.
Small. Narrow. Her size.
She crossed here.
Brave, or desperate.
I wade through without hesitation.
The water is shockingly cold, soaking through my waterproof boots in seconds, my pants up to my knees.
But I barely register it.
All I can think about is finding her.
On the other side, I pick up the trail again more easily now that I know what I'm looking for.
She was moving fast initially.
Branches broken at shoulder height, undergrowth trampled carelessly.
