Page 102 of The Darkest Hour

I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.

For a moment, we watched each other, and I wished I could have heard her thoughts or at least communicated with her.

How many humans have you seen this year? And what other animals are on this island?

After a minute, the doe must have understood that I would not harm her.

She took a step forward, and I remained still.

Continuing to protect herself, she kept her gaze on me and took a few more steps.

And I remained right there making no sudden movement.

Soon, the doe cautiously approached the stream several feet away from me and then dipped her head to drink.

Don’t worry, girl. I got your back. Go ahead and drink.

Every few laps of the stream, she would check me and I stayed still.

I should have rushed off, but. . .I felt this strange kinship with her.

On this island, we were both prey.

Both vulnerable.

Both trying to survive in a world full of predators.

The doe's dark eyes were wide, full of the same cautious wariness that I felt thrumming through my own veins.

She was a mirror of my fear.

But you have made it this long so. . .this island can’t be that bad.

I wondered how the doe survived here, how she navigated these same dark paths I now found myself on.

She was so small, so delicate, and yet here she was, alive in this wild, unforgiving place.

Maybe there was something to be learned from her, some secret of survival that I had yet to grasp.

Or maybe it was just luck, the same kind of luck that had kept me alive this far, even as I stumbled blindly through the night.

The doe’s ears flicked back, probably catching a sound that was too faint for my human ears to detect.

She raised her head and took a step back.

What did you hear?

I took a step back too.

Then, suddenly she bounded away, disappearing into the underbrush with a grace that I envied.

And no fool, I raced off too.

Whatever scared the doe, probably wouldn’t be good for me either.

I headed off with a light jog, but. . .now. . .I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being watched, that something—or someone—was out there, waiting for the right moment to strike.

Was it just my paranoia?

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