She turns back to Elias, muttering something that makes him laugh weakly.
My chest loosens again.
They help him to his feet. He stumbles; Gladys grabs his elbow. He tries to joke; she swats him verbally back into line. They start the slow trek toward extraction.
I follow at a safe distance, unable to stay away. Once he’s on the helicopter, he’ll be safe, and I’ll be able to take a breath and continue about my day.
When the forest finally swallows the sound of voices and human footsteps, I stop, lean against a towering cedar, and let myself breathe.
He’ll be fine. He’s safe and out of danger.
I breathe again, properly this time.
And then I say it.
Out loud.
To the empty air.
“You’re going to be the death of me, Elias Hart.”
A sharp chitter answers from somewhere above my head—far too immediate, far too smug. I don’t even look up at first. I already know who it is. Of course he followed me. Of course he did.
The squirrel drops onto the trunk a few feet away, clinging upside down like some kind of woodland gargoyle, tail flicking like a metronome. He stares at me with bright, unblinking intensity, then pats the bark twice with one paw—tap tap—like he’s summoning me for a meeting I didn’t agree to attend.
“No,” I say flatly.
He chitters again, louder, and—because the universe enjoys humiliating me—scampers down and tries to climb my leg and explore my fur, nosing around like he’s looking for a tribute.
I step back, scowling. “You are not getting a reward for emotional support. I did not appoint you to this role.”
The squirrel pauses, looks up at me like I’m the unreasonable one, and then darts to my other leg with the persistence of acreature who has never once been told no by anything bigger than he is.
I grind my teeth. “Unbelievable,” I mutter, and start walking before he can decide to climb me again. Behind me, he chitters in triumphant little bursts—absolutely convinced I’m leaving because I’m intimidated by his authority.
I huff a laugh and start the long walk back to my own territory.
Behind me, the forest whispers. Ahead of me, trouble waits. And somewhere between those two truths, a human biologist has taken up residence in my ribs where he absolutely does not belong.
CHAPTER SIX
ELIAS
By the morningof day three at Ranger HQ, I’ve become intimately familiar with the ceiling tiles above my cot. I’ve counted them. I’ve named them. I have favorite tiles. This is not a good sign.
On the plus side: I’m not dead.
On the minus: I’m going absolutely stir-crazy.
The little infirmary room they put me in is functional—bright window, one narrow cot, a humming mini fridge that seems to run solely on spite—but after three days, it feels like a shoebox with medical posters taped to the walls. Someone tried to make it cozy by adding a plant on the windowsill. The plant is wilting, which I relate to so deeply.
I sit up slowly, cautiously, because my head still throbs if I move too fast. The concussion isn’t as brutal as the first day, but it’s still hanging around like an unwanted houseguest. The kind that eats your snacks and insists that they’ll absolutely help to do the washing up but they never do.
My research time is slipping away like melting snow. Every hour I sit on this cot is one less hour out in the forest. One less day at those stations I was so excited to reach. One less chance to collect early-spring data before the real heat hits.
I rub my face with both hands and groan into my palms.
A knock sounds at the door before it pushes open.
