Page 21 of Unpacking Secrets

I needed to keep it together.

Focusing back on my current predicament, I touched the pocket of my shorts, looking for my phone, but it had been knocked loose during the fall. With a gasp, I groped at my neck, terrified I might have lost my mother’s ring. Its reassuring weight still lay against my sternum, trapped between the t-shirt and my skin. I muttered a swift thank you to the universe for watching out for me on that front.

As I stared numbly back up the hillside, a droplet of something ran into my eye. I wiped at it, thinking my eye was watering, then I gaped at the back of my hand in horror. It was blood, smeared now across both my hand and my forehead. Though I counted my blessings that no bones were broken after that fall, the sight of those scarlet streaks caused me to whimper aloud.

“It’s okay, you’re okay,” I whispered, repeating the words in a pathetic attempt at coaxing myself to stand. “Just get up, you’ll be okay.”

Some internal portion of me screamed back,This is definitely not okay!

I was caught between full out panic and the knowledge that no one was coming to help me out of this. If I didn’t get to my feet and start making my way back to the car, well, the alternative wasn’t something I wanted to explore.

Slowly, I sat up and looked around for any sign of my phone. Sunlight glinted off something buried in the dead leaves of the forest floor a few yards away.

With a sigh of relief that morphed swiftly into a groan, I rose to my feet. The phone was miraculously undamaged, but I had no signal out here. Out of options, I pocketed the phone, fixed the ponytail that had come halfway out of my hair elastic, and began walking.

A few painful steps later, I was already limping.

The trees were thick down here and my confidence in which direction I was traveling faltered embarrassingly soon into the journey. The soft babble of the creek kept me company, so I decided to follow it, hopefully back to the path I'd taken out to the Point.

My knee throbbed and, soon enough, the sweat beading across my forehead caused blood to drip into my eye again. I was barely managing to hold it together, stumbling along until the thin stream of water beside me joined up with the main body of the creek.

Once there, I doubled over and fought back the tears. If I started crying now, I was afraid I might never stop. It might have been melodramatic of me, but there was a certainty deep in my gut that my survival depended on me not falling apart out here.

“You can do this,” I said aloud. “Youhaveto do this. Buck up, Jules.”

The words were not as reassuring as I might have hoped.

I rested a few minutes longer while I debated whether it was safe to use the creek water to wash the cut on my forehead or wet my suddenly dry mouth. Headlines about flesh-eating bacteria and sewage runoff flashed through my mind, so I decided against it. With a deep breath, I started hobbling along beside the creek, hoping I would soon find the original trail.

Even once I was sure I must have traveled far enough, I still hadn’t found it. The trees seemed to be closing in around me instead of spreading out, until I could barely see more than a few feet on either side.

Over the gentle trickle of the creek and the birdsong above came a different sort of sound and I froze.

Are there bears in these woods? Mountain lions?

What kind of moron went traipsing into the forest without researching local predators?

The sound, if there had been one outside of my overburdened imagination, was gone by the time I stopped berating myself. I checked the phone again for a signal, though whether I was hoping to call for help or research the local bear population, I wasn’t entirely sure. It didn’t matter anyway, since I still had no service.

I wiped at my left eyebrow with the back of my hand, relieved to see there was no resulting streak of fresh blood on my skin, and forced myself to start walking again.

A few minutes later, the sound came again—a distinct rustle of leaves, louder this time. I glanced wildly around for something to defend myself with and found a large branch, perfect for use as a walking stick. I gripped it in my right hand, trying to quiet the harsh sound of my own breathing.

At least I’d go down swinging.

The creature that popped out of the underbrush several feet in front of me was neither bear nor mountain lion. It was, strangely enough, an inquisitive-looking Border Collie wearing a red bandana around its neck.

I stayed right where I was, stick in hand in case the dog was rabid, but it simply wagged its plumed tail and trotted toward me.

“Hi there,” I said softly, lowering the weapon a smidge. The dog cocked its head at the words and padded closer.

“Blue!” The male voice sounded close. “Blue. Come here, girl!”

My head shot up. I shifted my grip on the branch again, wondering if some axe murderer had brought his dog along to track down lost women in the woods. When the owner of the voice appeared from between the trees, I was caught in a precarious balance between relief and dread, because I knew him.

It was Henry Walker.

Nine

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