Page 29 of Bitter Truths

All I have are half-baked theories with no proof. It feels like I’m drowning in hell.

“Your grandma took a similar trip with me when I turned eighteen.” Mom sits beside me, the mattress dipping under her weight. “Although, this place has running water. We spent weeks in tents.”

“I didn’t realize Grandma was such an adventurer.”

“Not so much after you kids were born. Then she became all about spoiling you and Winston.” She looks at my cheek, attention lingering on the purple bruise. “How’s it feeling?”

“Fine.” It throbs with every heartbeat.

“Good, we’re meeting our guide bright and early.” She pats my knee. “Roger will be here at five sharp to go over our route for the first week.”

“Five? That’s early.”

“Early starts are best in the mountains. Let’s get washed up.”

When she disappears into the bathroom, I open our group chat one more time, scrolling through last night’s messages. The way they ended after Winston’s update makes my skin crawl.

“Your turn.” Mom emerges in flannel pajamas, skin freshly washed.

I go through the motions like a robot. Brush teeth. Wash face. Avoid the bruise. Change into sleep shorts and a t-shirt that smells like home.

When I return, Mom’s already in bed, her lamp off.

“Goodnight, honey.” She sounds halfway to sleep already. “Get some rest. Tomorrow will be challenging.”

Perfect. “Night, Mom.”

Something scurries in the walls. The bed frame groans when I sit down.

I slide under sheets that smell like mothballs. My fingers find the bee charm, the only piece of them I have left.

Mom’s breathing deepens into soft snores.

Outside, wind rattles through pine needles. A branch scratches against the window over and over.

I don’t want to be here. Part of me wants to shake Mom awake and demand we go home.

I close my eyes. Try to breathe. In through my nose. Out through my mouth.

Tomorrow, maybe there’ll be a break in the trees, a moment of cell service. An opportunity to talk to them.

For now, I lie awake in this unfamiliar bed, staring up at the ceiling, feeling weirdly empty as my thoughts spin in circles, waiting for sleep to drag me under.

5

BIANCA

Three days into our mountain prison, and I’m losing my fucking mind.

Rain beats on the cabin roof for the third straight day. The sound drives into my skull like nails. I press my palms against my ears, but it doesn’t help. Nothing helps.

I’m curled on my narrow bunk, staring at the knotted wood ceiling while Mom sorts through wet hiking gear. The single room feels smaller every hour.

“Storm should break tomorrow,” Mom says, hanging another soaked jacket on the line we’ve strung across the cabin. “Roger thinks we’ll have clear skies by afternoon.”

I grunt.

She glances at me, worry creasing her forehead. “Honey, you need to eat.”