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A ladder.

I don’t expect to see anything much when I start climbing, other than a good view, since it’s built on the top of a ridge and everything around it is nicely cleared. I’ll probably see more trees and maybe an eagle if I’m lucky, although I wouldn’t be surprised if what I get instead are buzzards that have already started circling.

I’m halfway up and both my feet are giving me hell and I’m feeling woozy from the height, but I keep going, because the only thing at the bottom is the ground and I’ve been hanging out there long enough. When I get to the top I get what I expected, a sea of green, endless trees and rolling hills, their beauty undeniable even though it probably spells death for me. I let out a sigh, determined to enjoy the view if nothing else, when a gust of wind blows away some low-hanging mist and in the distance there’s something new.

Electric lines.

I have a destination.

For the first time in forever I’m pointing toward something and not going blindly, which gives me hope. It’s not something I can put in my stomach or that adds speed to my steps, but it does give me the strength to take one more, and then another. I’m pointed in the right direction and making time when it starts to sprinkle, small drops hitting my face and trickling down my neck. I don’t bother wiping them away, intent on saving every bit of energy I have for one thing and one thing only.

I’m so focused on my steps that my feet are all I’m looking at, willpower being the only thing I’ve got left in me. I move one and then the other, the simple repetition of socked foot, then naked foot, being one that might—just might—save my life. I’m singing “The Bear Went Over the Mountain” again, moving my feet in time with the song, counting how many verses it takes me to get to where I’m headed.

I’m twenty-three repetitions in when I break out of the trees, although I almost pass right underneath the electric lines without noticing them because all my concentration is pointed downward. It’s their buzzing that finally gets my attention.

Electric lines cut through the woods like scars, the trees cleared out for a ways on either side, the sloping wires reaching across and over valleys with huge spires between them. The one I’m under now looks something like the Eiffel Tower, or at least the closest I’m ever going to get to it. I stare up at it, losing my balance and going over in a pile of musty blanket and stale sweat. I’m pissed at myself for falling when all I’ve got to do is follow this clean cut across the forest that’ll lead me back to civilization.

I happen to fall the right way so that I’m facing a utility station, far enough out that I can just see it, and little dots of orange moving around it. I sit up, black spots joining those bright splashes of color that I realize are people, and dear God, I cannot faint right now.

“Get up,” I say, either in my head or out loud. I don’t know enough to tell the two apart anymore. I drag myself to my feet and push what’s left of Davey Beet’s hat off my forehead, squinting into the distance.

There’s a service road and a white truck, two people wearing the bright orange that I always cursed for breaking up my view in the past, but right now is a beacon for me to run toward with everything I’ve got left—which isn’t much.

“Jesus Christ, get up, Ashley,” I say. “They’re right there.”

Except I can’t. My knees have finally given out, every muscle I’ve got collapsed. I finished the race, but the bus is leaving and Coach won’t carry me and I’m not going to make it. I’m going to die leaning against this electric pole, or right at the finish line. I don’t know which is which anymore, like the cans of tomato soup lined up in the middle of a blizzard keeping me warm while I died in the snow. Dad came out to get me that time, but there’s no one here.

This is my call, and I make the decision.

I am running, and I am screaming. I don’t have words or anything close to language anymore, just a plea, a wild sound that I hope carries as I run toward them, willing them to see me, to hear me.

I am Ashley Hawkins and I am not dead yet, dammit, and my blanket streaks behind me, my fireboard and broken whiskey top whipping against my legs, Davey Beet’s canteen snug against my hip and his hat slipping down to my eyebrows as the rain keeps falling and it runs into my mouth, tinting my screams with the taste of a storm.

They hear me. They see me.

They are running toward me, cutting the distance that I have to cover, and I’m so grateful I could cry, but there’s no tears left inside. My legs burn, and darkness is spotting my vision and my feet are the heaviest they have ever been, but I keep going, denying the pain, focusing on the buzz of the electrical wires above me and the straight line they make between me and other human beings.

We meet under the shadow of a spire, the sun breaking out for a moment to show me these people, a woman with a blond ponytail and a man with a red beard. I collapse in front of them, trying to find words to say everything that needs to be said, to explain the woods and the possum, the bag at my side that holds what’s left of my foot, Davey Beet’s bloody sock and how deeply my eyes are sunk into my head.

What I say is:

“My name is Ashley Hawkins, and I need help.”

Part Three

After I Was Found

The man calls 911 as the woman walks by my side, back to the truck, telling me to watch out for things like dips in the ground and the little mound where the extra stone got dumped in a pile when they were putting in the service road. Normally I might be amused at anyone being worried that some gravel might break me in half, but then again, I have no idea what I look like now. And to be honest, it might.

She keeps talking, and I realize that she’s waiting for me to say something more than my name, but I don’t know what else matters. Instead I sit in the grass near the truck, forearms resting on my knees. Then I see the license plate.

“Hey,” I interrupt the woman, who is digging in the truck for something. She turns around, a brown bag in her hand.

“Am I in Georgia or are you in Tennessee?”

Her eyebrows come together, and I know I need to try again, find better words for what I’m asking. It made sense to me in my head, and since I’m the only person I’ve been talking to for a while, I thought it would do the trick.

“Where am I?”