“So,” Sam says, sauntering into the room with all the subtlety of a labradoodle, “deserting us for Wyoming?”
“Temporarily,” I say. Clearly he was eavesdropping in the next room. Rangers gossip more than Akai.
“Well,” he says, “guess I better soak up your presence while I can. You walking back to your station? I’ll escort you.”
Gladys snorts. “You mean you’ll walk the long way and pretend it’s work.”
“Morale patrol,” he says. “Very important.”
I stand, feeling a little off-balance but not offended. Sam is… Sam. He flirts with everyone. Or at least I think he does. I’m usually too absorbed in research to listen to most of the park gossip.
“Sure,” I say. “Walking back anyway.”
We head out together.
The sun is stronger now, burning off the last of the morning haze. Gravel crunches under our boots as we leave the ranger buildings and hit the narrower trail that leads toward my station.
“So, Wyoming,” Sam says. “Big mountains. Less oxygen. More tourists in expensive jackets.”
“Also more interesting variation in plant communities,” I say automatically.
He grins. “Of course that’s where your brain goes.”
“Where else would it go?”
He gives me a sideways look. “I can think of a few places.”
I snort and roll my eyes.
We fall into an easy rhythm. He tells me about an argument he had with a hiker who insisted the trail map was wrong (“Sir, the mountain has been here longer than you. I promise it knows what it’s doing”). I tell him about a squirrel that stole half my granola bar yesterday and then chirped angrily at me when I dared to move.
He laughs at all the right places. I do too.
It’s nice. Familiar. Light.
But it’s not Boone.
We’re a little way into the forest, past the point where the main tourist trails diverge, when my boot finds a shallow dip hidden under leaves.
My ankle rolls.
I make a very dignified noise—something like “whuf”—and pitch sideways.
Sam grabs my arm before I can properly eat dirt.
“Whoa,” he says, tightening his grip. “Got you.”
His hand is warm around my forearm, his other steadying at my elbow. We’re suddenly much closer than I realized we were walking. I can see the exact crinkle at the corner of his eyes, the sun-bleached tips of his hair.
My cheeks heat.
Though not because of Sam.
Because there’s a sudden, sharp, unmistakablesoundfrom somewhere to our right—a deep, resonant crack and a rumble that vibrates faintly through the ground.
It’s not thunder. The sky is clear.
It’s not a tree falling. The echo is wrong.
