Page 55 of Sick(ness)

“Over here! I see tracks!”

Sawyer turned, raising his rifle. “Go!” he said, firing once, twice, into the trees before grabbing her hand again. They ran until the sound of gunfire faded into the wind, until Addy’s lungs burned and her legs threatened to give out.

Only then did Sawyer stop, pulling her behind a fallen log, both of them gasping for air.

He met her eyes, sweat freezing on his temples despite the cold. “Those men,” he said, voice barely above a whisper, “they’re tracking us like animals. They won’t quit until they find us.”

Addy stared back at him, her breath shaking. “Then we don’t stop either.”

Sawyer’s gaze lingered on her for a heartbeat longer, then he nodded.

Twelve

The Climb

Addy’s boots slipped on frost-covered stones as she clawed her way upward. Each inhale stabbed her chest with cold fire. Her legs shook. Sweat froze on her temples. Three steps behind Sawyer, slipped to four steps, soon it was five. She fixed her eyes on his back, the steady rhythm of his shoulders as he climbed without hesitation. When he finally stopped, Addy collapsed against an outcropping, gasping clouds into the thin air. The ridge stretched before them like a cracked spine, and below, miles of skeletal trees swayed in silence.

Sawyer’s breath came in controlled puffs as he pointed north. “Ranger station.” His voice rasped. A muscle in his jaw twitched. “A shack with a radio tower. If we’re lucky.”

Addy was hardly able to nod. Her legs trembled as she followed him along the ridge, the ground uneven beneath their boots. Below them, she could see faint movement: the men, still searching, their voices distant but clear enough to remind her how close danger lingered.

Sawyer stopped suddenly and pointed ahead. Through the tangle of bare trees, the roofline of a small wooden structure peeked out, old but still standing.

“Come on,” he said, his voice low. “We’ll rest there. Briefly.”

By the time they reached the building, Addy’s hands were shaking. The old ranger station was weather-beaten and cold, but it offered shelter. A rusted sign hung crookedly by the door; the words “National Forest Service “ were barely legible.

Inside, the air smelled of dust and old wood. Broken furniture lay scattered across the floor, and a map peeled off the wall behind a cracked desk. Sawyer checked the corners, the windows, before giving a short nod.

Addy sank onto a bench, her heart still racing. “Do you think they followed us?”

Sawyer moved to the window, scanning the forest below. “Not yet. But they will.”

She watched him: the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw stayed tight even when he spoke softly. He was trying to keep calm for her; she could see it.

“Are you okay?” she asked quietly.

He didn’t answer at first. He kept watching the treeline, his rifle gripped loosely in his hands. He exhaled, the sound somewhere between a sigh and a growl.

“I should’ve seen it coming,” he said. “We stayed too long. I got comfortable.”

Addy frowned. “You kept us alive. That’s not comfort.”

He shook his head, his expression unreadable. “Doesn’t matter. Mistakes like that get people killed.”

She stood slowly, crossing to him. “You’re not a machine, Sawyer. You can’t plan for everything.”

He turned, and for the first time since she’d met him, she saw it: the flicker of something vulnerable in his eyes. Not fear exactly, but the weight of carrying it for too long.

“I’ve lost people before,” he said quietly. “Good people. I thought I was done with that.”

Addy’s throat tightened. “You haven’t lost me.”

He looked down at her, something shifting behind his calm exterior, something fragile, human. Then he nodded once, almost to himself, and turned back toward the window.

“Get some rest,” he said softly. “I’ll keep watch for a while.”

Addy wanted to argue, but exhaustion won. She found a blanket in the corner on a shelve, curled up near the wall, and listened to the wind outside.