Apparently, my sense of direction is so bad I can’t even find a loch so big they write songs about it.
I should’ve paid closer attention. Una said go right at the fork, then take the twisty path. Or was it take the forkafterthe twisty path? I let instinct guide me, and just when I start to feel like I’m on the right track, something shifts.
The ground changes, soggy and squishing under my feet, with rust-colored water seeping through the moss. There are bogs out here. Deep ones. The kind people drown in. Could anything be worse than sinking into a peat bog and getting sucked under in a slow, suffocating death?
I stop short. “Nope.”
Spinning on my heel, I double back. This time, I take the other fork and quicken my pace. My hope is so strong that when I finally break through the trees, it takes a second to process. The loch isn’t there.
A wide-open glen unfurls before me. But instead of green, the landscape is cast in steel-gray shadows.
I suddenly remember Una’s warning.Watch the sky. I look up, and my stomach drops. The sky is a silver bowl overhead—only it’s tarnishing to black, flipped upside down, trapping me. A cold raindrop hits my eye. I swipe it away with a muttered, “Crap.”
I hike up my dress and jog down into the valley. The ground is dense with rocks and tangled clumps of heather, forcing me into a heavy, awkward stride. Then—because that’s just how my day is going—my foot catches, wrenching my ankle. I go down and hit the ground hard.
I stay there, hands and knees dug into the dirt, gulping for breath. The air sharpens on my tongue. The wind shifts, temperature plummeting on a sudden gust. The sky darkens even more, and like some invisible crank has opened theheavens, rain dumps down, soaking my hair, my back, myeverything.
I’m pretty sure even Poppa’s army buddies would be impressed by the string of curses that rolls off my tongue.
I teeter to my feet, and with one final curse for good measure, I fumble to button my sopping-wet sweater with stiff fingers, not that it helps. Shielding my eyes from the downpour, I scan my surroundings, but it’s no use. I’m completely turned around. My teeth chatter, as much from panic as from the cold.
“It’s just rain,” I scold out loud. I’ll find my way. I just need shelter to think.
Gritting my teeth, I force a limping jog back up to the tree line. From there, I’ll backtrack to the trail, find the road, and throw myself—soggy and grateful—into the postman’s truck. Or lorry. Or whatever he calls it. Because screw walking.
The moment I hobble into the woods, the sound shifts, becoming quieter, muffled. Lush ferns and dense underbrush dull the storm’s thrum, and the rich scent of earth and green settles me.
I sink onto a fallen log and rub my ankle.
Adventures suck.
There’s a lot to appreciate in my predictable, hardworking life. I have routines. Plans. And I have freakingmaps.
I was impressed with myself navigating without GPS—look at me, all self-sufficient! But now? I’d sell my soul for my stupid phone. A map, a compass…
Poppa’s voice.
I rake a hand through my hair, exhaling hard.Okay. Focus.
But my brain doesn’t listen. Instead, it latches onto everything else unraveling.
My classes.Oh man, my classes.A whole week, gone? Physics isn’t the kind of major you just catch up in. What if I can’t make it up? What if I have to take an incomplete? What will that do to my GPA? I need good grades if I want to transfer.
And my student loan? Even with in-state tuition and community college, I had to borrow just to get this far. If I fail, do I have to pay it back?
Everything suddenly feels impossible. My limbs go heavy with exhaustion and I slide from the log onto a soft carpet of moss and lean back. Beneath the trees, only the faintest mist brushes my skin. Overhead, rain snaps against the canopy, distant and rhythmic. For a moment, it lulls me.
Poppa’s voice echoes in my head:You don’t stop when you’re tired, girl. You stop when you’re safe.
No more stalling. I need to move. Now.
Nobody is coming. Nobody is here to help me but me.
As usual.
I heave myself up and limp forward, following a wispy trail through the trees. Then I glimpse a patch of white. Knowing my luck, it’s probably some rusted-out murder van.
But I have no choice. I’ll take my chances with a psycho over spending the night shivering in the woods.
