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We spread out the current trail map and start working. She asks good questions, fast and practical. How wide are the bridges? Where can a wheelchair or a stroller turn around? Which sections flood in spring?
She writes everything down in neat block letters, and for an hour it’s easy, easier than anything has been in a long time.
Then she pulls the old survey out of its frame and lays it flat.
Along the north interior, the contour lines stop. There’s only a patch of nothing where the land should be.
“Was this damaged,” she asks, “or did the surveyor just get bored?”
“That area’s unsuitable.”
She looks up at me. Her gray-green eyes are steady. “You keep saying that word. Unsuitable.”
“It keeps being true.”
“Mm-hm.” She studies me for a long moment. Then she lets it go and slides the current map back on top. “Okay. South loop first, then. You can show me why the north is so unsuitable later.”
She leans across the table for a pencil, her shoulder bumping my arm. Most people flinch at an accidental touch, as if they’ve bumped a hot stove. Wren doesn’t even notice. She grabs the pencil and continues writing.
My ears turn toward her before I can stop them.
Twelve weeks. She’s here for twelve weeks, and then she’s gone. That’s the plan.
So why does every part of me want her to stay?
CHAPTER 3
OFF THE MAP
WREN
It’s only seven in the morning, but I’m already at the trailhead with a loaded day pack and a copy of the map in my pocket.
Holt leans on the gate, nursing a coffee cup the size of a flowerpot.
“South loop,” he says.
“Good morning to you too. I thought we’d start north.”
“Footbridge inspection is overdue.”
I check the shared ranger calendar on my phone. There it is, added last night by H.A. Funny. I don’t remember seeing it before.
“Fine,” I say. “But I’m adding this to my notes.”
I pull out my notebook, flip to a fresh page, and write “NORTH LOOP EXCUSES” at the top. Under it, I write: “1. Footbridge.”
He reads it upside down but doesn’t comment. Instead, he holds out a hand for my pack. I give it to him, out of curiosity.
He unzips it, takes out my spare hoodie and my second water bottle, and puts back a full water bladder, a first-aid kit, a whistle, and three granola bars. Then he hands it back.
“I had water,” I say.
“Now you have enough.”
My pack is heavier, but I’m smiling at how overprotective he’s being.
The south loop follows the creek through stands of birch and pine, with sunlight filtering down in long gold bars and ferns reaching my knees. Every turn gives us something to stop for: a mossy log, a waterfall that only appears after heavy rain, a family of ducks bobbing in an eddy like bath toys. It’s gorgeous.
