Page 100 of The Darkest Hour

The water ran cool against my parched throat.

This is perfect.

Next, I washed away some of the grime and sweat from my face, shivering as the chilled water trickled down my neck. It was a brief relief from my flight, and I soaked in every second of it.

My best bet would be to stay close to the stream for the rest of the day. That way I can have fresh water to drink as I’m searching the island.

So tired, I sat down, rested by the stream for a few minutes, and took in this vast island forest at night.

It was an unending sea of trees. Dark branchy silhouettes towered towards the starry night sky. Shadows danced and shifted among the trunks.

This forest was so vast, so seemingly limitless, that it was easy to imagine a life out here—hidden away from everything and everyone.

What if I never leave this island? Would my brother forget about me? Would the world even notice that I was gone?

I shook my head, trying to clear those thoughts from my mind. I needed to focus, to stay sharp if I wanted to survive.

Alright. You’ve rested enough. Drink a little bit more and then go.

But then. . .as I took another scoop of water, I caught a glimpse of something on the ground nearby.

Hold up. What’s that?

It was just at the edge of the stream where the moonlight touched the earth.

Oh fuck. This is good.

I spotted large boot prints.

Hope sparked in my core.

Someone was here. A person with big feet.

Slowly, I moved over to the two foot prints and stared at them.

Yes.

The prints were faint, barely visible in the soft light, but they were unmistakable.

Someone had been here, maybe not recently, but not so long ago that the forest had swallowed their presence entirely.

Okay. This is good. I hope.

My mind raced as I tried to make sense of it.

Who could have been out here?

Why?

And where were they now?

I carefully reached out, tracing the outline of one of the prints with my fingers. The edges were soft, the details worn by time and weather, but still clear enough to see that they were from boots—heavy, sturdy ones. The kind someone would wear for a long trek through the wilderness.

But the age of the prints was hard to determine.

Weeks, maybe?

Long enough that I didn't need to worry about whoever made them being around right now, but recent enough to remind me that I wasn't the only one who had wandered into these woods this month.

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