Page 64 of My Sister is Going to Kill Me

“I hear something!”

It was quiet at first, a snuffling whimper. Then, a cry. Liv surveyed the area, homing in on a gray shuffle that sent a shiver through a spiny bush high above the creek.

“Charlie?” Devon shouted. “CHARLIE!”

Another warbling cry. A long, horrible scrape. And then it became clear.

“Is that a pony?” Imogen said.

“A mule,” Big Pete said.

The animal was high above them, off-trail. It looked exhausted, its coat matted with sweat. A single saddlebag dragged below its belly, the leather satchel picking up brush as the animal bumped along. Every few paces, the mule would pause, turn, and lumber back the other way. There was no rider in sight.

“Maybe it’s the one the hiker mentioned?” PK’s voice was entirely too hopeful. “The one with Babette?”

“I don’t see any people,” Devon said.

“So it’s lost?” Imogen said. The mule sashayed forward and back, its drooping head making it look plaintive. As if it had been cut off from any sense of purpose and was just drifting.

“Or its handler is up there somewhere,” Big Pete said. Liv followed his gaze up the empty trail. “Maybe they got detained.”

“BABETTE!” PK called out.

“Maybe she and Charlie found each other,” Devon said.

The mule lumbered into their midst, doggedly pushing to the creek. When it dipped its huge head and began to drink in big snuffling gulps, Big Pete sidled up to it, patting its flank as he approached. Liv grabbed its saddle and pulled what she could from the flopped-open saddlebag. There were just a few items inside. A hair tie. A Raw Power Hydrology Stick, whatever that was. And a piece of mottled white fabric, which unfurled to reveal a spectacular dust-speckled kimono, the word “Babette” blazing across the back in silver paint.

“That’s hers.” Devon stroked the kimono. There was a touch of surprise in her voice. “She made it.”

But where was she?

Liv scanned the horizon. Nothing but rocks and bushes. And a faint, ankle-twisting trail that snaked up to a cavernous amphitheater of sun-baked boulders.

“There!” A hundred yards past the left edge of the rocky bowl, she saw someone. A hiker with hands on knees, bent over and panting.

Devon shot off at a fast clip, charging off-trail up through the boulders. Liv tried to keep pace, flying past the rest of the group behind the older woman. But just as abruptly as Devon started, she stopped.

“Wait.”

Liv looked up. The hiker still hadn’t moved.

“It’s a man.” Devon shook her head. “Why would Charlie be with Babette’s mule?”

Charlie. Was it possible? Liv couldn’t make out the stooped hiker’s face, but the silhouette looked about right—slender, in a dark windbreaker and shorts, with a ball cap and a day pack creating a little hump on his back.

Devon cupped her hands around her mouth.

“Charlie!”

The man looked up from his crouch and waved in their general direction. Devon waved back. Liv still couldn’t make out his face, but she could see the sharp afternoon light slicing across the canyon, and below it, the wobble in his wave. Was he dehydrated? Or was he just as blinded by the sun as they were?

“I don’t know what he was thinking,” Devon said. She kept waving, as if her arms could pilot her brother back to her.

“Maybe he got lost on his way from Thunder Spring, found the mule, and followed it back down.”

“Charlie doesn’t wander. Especially in the wilderness.”

Something didn’t seem right. The man had turned his back to them now, balancing himself to shimmy down a sandstone boulder. There was something about the recklessness of his movements that didn’t sit square with Liv. Charlie struck her as careful and timid, but now, he leapt down from the rock with confidence—overconfidence, even—executing a lurching spin just before he crash-landed on the ground. Was he just desperate to reach them? Was this one of those situations where dire circumstances unlocked a hidden reservoir of strength?