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Heart fluttering in my chest, I force myself to keep going. I’m so tired and hungry I feel like I’m about to pass out, but I have to get to that person before they leave. They might be my only shot at getting help before I grow too weak to keep searching for it.
At the top of the mountain, I’m forced to climb straight up a small rock outcropping. My arms and legs tremble as I find handholds and toeholds, but I manage to drag myself up and over the ledge. There, I find a wide clearing, a cabin with a killer view of the valley on the other side, and a man in a brown flannel shirt and black knit cap hard at work splitting a pile of firewood.
He’s a big man, tall and broad-shouldered with thighs so thick they strain the seams of his jeans, but his colors are okay. His aura is mostly brown and gray—a sign he’s probably lonely and at least a little sad—but with touches of yellow and orange that hint at a creative, hopeful side.
And who wouldn’t be lonely living up here on the mountain in the middle of nowhere? That’s normal, right? And he has a Jeep, I see, as I push to my feet and creep slowly across the clearing.
The vehicle is parked in the small shed by the house and is an older model, one I could probably hotwire if I tried.
In addition to hacking my brother’s security protocols at the tower and picking the lock at the gym at school so my friends and I could use the pool and hot tub after hours, I’m pretty good with a hotwire. I’ve never stolen a car—only practiced on my friends’ cars, mostly to maintain my rep as the girl most likely to become a spy—but I could do it. I wouldn’t even feel bad about it.
After all, I would bring it back. And this man surely has enough food and supplies to survive for a few days stranded on the mountain.
I’m about to reverse direction and head for the Jeep when the axe goes quiet. I glance over just as the man turns and his nose lifts into the air.
I have a moment to realize the guy isn’t human—the flash of animal awareness in his eyes gives him away—and that he looks weirdly familiar. Then he’s running toward me, his axe still in hand, and I figure it’s better to get the hell out of here first and worry about whether he’s going to cut me in half later.
I turn to run, sprinting for the ledge, hoping I won’t break anything when I make the jump to the forest floor several yards below. But before I can make it ten feet I’m flattened by a wall of lumberjack.
I hit the ground hard, the wind rushing from my lungs, but not rushing back in again. So, I’m basically helpless and frozen, gasping for air when the guy rolls me onto my back and says, “Why are you all the way out here? Where’s Jacob?”
Confusion claws at my forehead, but I can’t breathe, let alone start asking questions.
I really, truly can’t breathe.
A fresh wave of panic hits and black spots begin to throb at the edges of my vision, then the center, pulsing larger with every passing second.
I’m conscious long enough to realize the lumberjack has the same brown and gold-flecked eyes as Jacob, and then I’m out, sinking into the black fuzz wrapping around my brain.
