This is the point where I should turn around. Log the uncertainty. Go back and radio it in.
Just another minute, I decide instead. One more look.
I restart the engine and ease forward, unaware that the current has shifted behind me, slow and patient, already beginning to erase the line I took to get here.
The channel dead-ends without announcing itself. Not abruptly, just a gradual thinning. Reeds crowd closer.Water shallows until the skiff kisses mud with a soft, unmistakable scrape.
I cut the engine.
Silence drops fast out here. Not quiet. Alive. Insects ticking. Water shifting against roots. Heat pressing down like a held breath.
Backing out should be simple. I ease the tiller into reverse.
Nothing.
The hull shifts a few inches, then settles again, held fast by mud. I try once more, slower, controlled.
Still nothing.
Okay.
This isn’t panic territory. It’s problem-solving. I step carefully out of the skiff, boots sinking deeper than expected, water immediately warm around my calves. I brace my shoulder against the hull and push—steady, patient, the way you move weight when you respect it.
The skiff rocks. Frees an inch. Then sinks again.
I stop. Force my breathing down.
Don’t rush. Don’t muscle it. That’s how you make it worse.
I glance back the way I came, and my stomach tightens, just a fraction.
The channel behind me doesn’t look the same.
Light has shifted. Reeds lean differently. The bend I took has softened, the line blurred. Water moves where it hadn’t before, current nudging debris into new shapes. If I hadn’t watched myself come through, I’d swear this was a different stretch entirely.
Floodplain logic. Dynamic environment.
Still manageable, if I don’t make it worse.
I pull the radio from my belt and press the call button.
Static answers. Long and empty.
I try again. Nothing.
The sun is higher now. Heat building. Time moving whether I do or not.
This is the quiet moment where a mistake becomes real.
My instinct kicks in immediately. Free the skiff. Pick a direction. Keep moving. Momentum fixes things. It always has.
It’s the same instinct that had me pushing with Wren—steering by force, trying to stay ahead instead of stopping long enough to see what I was doing.
I know, suddenly and clearly, that if I do that here, if I start guessing channels, chasing the idea of progress, I’ll make it worse. Just like I did with her.
Not because I didn’t care. But because I cared too much to wait and see what she actually needed.
I think of the name Ana used.
