“I swear,” I mutter under my breath, “if you try to walk?—”
Elias emerges like a newborn deer made of stubbornness and regret.
He tries to stand upright. Fails. Braces on the tent pole. Fails again. His hair is a disaster. His eyes are half lidded, unfocused. He staggers three steps into the clearing, sways, bends?—
And vomits.
My whole body lurches forward on instinct.
Concussion. Definitely a concussion.
Thank the ancient forests he contacted the rangers last night. If he hadn’t?—
He retches again, gripping his knees, trembling with the effort.
I clench my jaw so hard a branch beneath me cracks.
“I told you to call for help,” I whisper, even though he can’t hear me. “You better not be dumb enough to downplay this.”
He coughs weakly, spits, wipes his mouth on his sleeve like a man whose pride died sometime around impact with a rock.
Then he mutters, “Ugh… too warm…”
Warm? Out here?
Idiot.
He stumbles toward the stream, dragging his feet, weaving like a drunk elk.
“No, no, no—don’t go near the water,” I hiss, dropping silently from the tree to trail him. “Why would you—Elias. Elias.”
He can’t hear me, but that doesn’t stop me from using his name like a curse.
The stream is swollen from snowmelt, running higher and faster than usual. Not dangerous for someone fully alert, but absolutely a problem for someone who can barely stand upright.
He kneels at the bank, bracing against a rock.
His hands shake. His breath hitches. He splashes cold water over his face, gasping.
For ten agonizing seconds, I picture him falling forward, headfirst, face down, letting the current carry him like a dropped twig.
But he doesn’t. He stays upright.
Barely.
He wipes his face, grimaces, and staggers back toward camp.
I let out a slow, shaky breath I hope no one ever learns about.
Back at the tent, he collapses onto his sleeping bag. He lies there for a moment, panting.
The sat phone rings.
He fumbles for it. Presses it to his ear.
“Yeah—hi—Elias Hart. I’m… yeah. I’m okay. I can handle it.”
I nearly bite through my tongue.
