Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
ELIAS
By the morning of day three at Ranger HQ, I’ve become intimately familiar with the ceiling tiles above my cot. I’ve counted them. I’ve named them. I have favorite tiles. This is not a good sign.
On the plus side: I’m not dead.
On the minus: I’m going absolutely stir-crazy.
The little infirmary room they put me in is functional—bright window, one narrow cot, a humming mini fridge that seems to run solely on spite—but after three days, it feels like a shoebox with medical posters taped to the walls.
Someone tried to make it cozy by adding a plant on the windowsill.
The plant is wilting, which I relate to so deeply.
I sit up slowly, cautiously, because my head still throbs if I move too fast. The concussion isn’t as brutal as the first day, but it’s still hanging around like an unwanted houseguest. The kind that eats your snacks and insists that they’ll absolutely help to do the washing up but they never do.
My research time is slipping away like melting snow. Every hour I sit on this cot is one less hour out in the forest. One less day at those stations I was so excited to reach. One less chance to collect early-spring data before the real heat hits.
I rub my face with both hands and groan into my palms.
A knock sounds at the door before it pushes open.
“Morning, Hart,” Gladys says, sweeping in like a commander reviewing troops. “Still alive?”
“As far as I can tell,” I say. “Though I’d like a second opinion from someone who isn’t enjoying this.”
She snorts. “Don’t flatter yourself. I don’t enjoy hauling scientists out of the woods. It ruins my coffee breaks.”
Gladys sets a clipboard at the foot of the bed, crosses her arms, and gives me the kind of look that could peel paint off walls. The woman radiates competent authority. If the forest ever staged a coup, it would put her in charge.
“How’s the head?” she asks.
“Better,” I say truthfully. “Still a bit of a bass drum in there. Painkillers help.”
“You dizzy when you stand?”
“Only if I move too fast. Or look up. Or look down. Or exist.”
She raises an eyebrow.
“Okay,” I amend, “but really—it’s improving.”
Before she can grill me further, another voice pipes up cheerfully from the doorway.
“Well, hey, fancy seeing you vertical!”
Sam leans in, wearing that trademark ranger grin that probably makes half the hikers swoon. His uniform shirt is slightly too tight across the shoulders. He’s holding a coffee mug with a cartoon bear flexing its biceps and the phrase BEARLY AWAKE printed across it.
“Morning,” I say, amused.
He looks me over like he’s cataloging injuries. “Glad you’re on the mend,” he says. “That was a hell of a call to get. You gave us all a scare.”
I shrug, only wincing a little. “Trust me, it scared me too.”
Sam steps farther in, leaning casually against the wall. “If you need help getting back to your station later, I can always—”
But before he can finish that sentence, a flash of something—
A memory?
A dream?
No. Something I felt.
Strong arms lifting me like I weigh nothing. Warm skin. A chest against my back. The rhythmic sway of being carried. A voice—low, rough, grumbling words that somehow made me feel safe.
For a second, my breath catches.
“You okay?” Sam asks, concern flickering over his face.
“I—yeah,” I say quickly, blinking it away. “Just spaced out.”
I absolutely am not telling him I had a hallucination of being carried through the forest by a giant naked lumberjack who complained affectionately about humans. That’s not medically advisable information to disclose.
“Anyway,” Sam continues, clearly undeterred, “when you’re back on your feet, maybe we could revisit that phone-number-for-safety-coordination plan.”
I laugh, because it’s all I can do. My brain is still somewhere else, floating between half-remembered impressions and confusing warmth.
“Sam,” Gladys says sharply without looking at him.
“What?” he protests.
“Not while he’s concussed.”
“I’m being supportive!”
“Out,” she orders.
He obeys. Eventually.
The door closes behind him, and the room quiets again.
Gladys sighs, rubbing her temples. “You attract trouble,” she mutters. “Wildlife incidents, head injuries, flirty interns….”
“That last one’s not my fault.”
“I didn’t say it was your fault,” she replies. “I said you attract it.”
Honestly? Fair.
She flips through her clipboard. “If your vitals look good after breakfast, I’ll clear you to head back. But you’ll take it slow. No twelve-mile hikes, no climbing anything that isn’t absolutely necessary, and radio check-ins every few hours until your headache’s gone.”
“Gladys, you’re a saint.”
She snorts. “Hardly. You smell less than most cryptids, which is why I tolerate you.”
The words take a moment to land. “Cryptids?”
Before I can ask, a head pops in the door. It’s Jonah—the very shy trainee ranger who looks like a startled deer most of the time. He holds a piece of paper out like he’s afraid it might explode.
“Uh, Gladys? Dr. Hart? You should see this.”
She frowns. “If it’s another raccoon in the supply shed—”
“No, uh—footprints,” he says. “Near the storage building. They’re… weird.”
He hands the paper to me, which is a photo that’s been printed.
I expect bear prints. Maybe mountain lion. But the image on the page—
I sit up straighter.
The prints are enormous. Humanoid. Deep. The toes splay slightly. No claw marks. The stride length is long. Too long.
My scalp prickles.
These are the same kind I found last week. The same kind I’ve been telling myself must be distorted melt patterns or hoaxes or freak geological anomalies.
“What the hell…?” I whisper. “Those aren’t bear.”
“Nope,” Jonah says, sounding a little excited, a little scared. “And they’re fresh. Like… from this morning.”
Gladys leans over my shoulder.
“Oh, for the love of cedar bark—this again.”
“You’ve seen them before?” I ask sharply.
Gladys shoots me a look. “This park is full of nonsense. Rockfalls, weird mudslides, overenthusiastic campers with plaster molds. It’s never Bigfoot.”
Jonah grins nervously. “I mean… they kinda look like Bigfoot prints.”
Gladys groans. “No. Absolutely not. We are not doing this today.”
But Jonah’s joke lands a little too hard.
Everyone laughs—Jonah, Gladys (begrudgingly), even me. But my laughter catches halfway. My chest tightens, like a string pulled too taut.
Big.
Humanoid.
Silent.
Present.
The memory flashes again: warmth, strength, movement, a voice rumbling close to my ear.
No. Impossible. Plus, I saw naked skin.
I shake myself. I’m concussed. I’m imagining things. The bear incident scrambled my brain.
Still….
“What do you think they are?” Jonah asks me.
I clear my throat. “Could be melt distortion. A hiker with weird shoe treads. A prank.”
“But they’re huge.”
“People buy novelty winter boots,” I say weakly.
Gladys claps her hands sharply. “All right. Mystery solved. It’s mud and stupid footwear. Jonah, go log it so the archive doesn’t yell at me later. Dr. Hart, eat something before you pass out again.”
Jonah leaves. Gladys leaves. The room feels bigger and smaller at the same time.
I stare at the photo once more before setting it aside. It’s ridiculous. It’s impossible. It’s—
I exhale shakily.
I need to get out of here.
An hour later, Gladys pronounces me “stable enough to supervise a toddler” and starts gathering things.
“Ranger Hargrove and I will drive you as far up the maintenance road as we can,” she says. “From there, we’ll walk you to your station.”
“I can walk,” I insist.
“You’ll walk with supervision,” she corrects. “Unless you want to spend another night in my infirmary listening to the generator wheeze.”
I shut my mouth.
The ride out is quiet. Sam keeps glancing at me from the passenger seat like he wants to speak but isn’t sure whether it should be charming or medical. Gladys drives carefully, avoiding potholes.
When we reach the trail access point, they help me unload my pack.
Sam offers me his hand as I hop down from the truck bed. I take it because refusing would be rude, and also because I subtly need it.
The forest smells incredible—damp earth, cold air, cedar. Like it’s been waiting for me.
Gladys eyes me critically. “Any dizziness?”
“Just… ambient concussion vibes,” I admit. “Manageable.”
“Take breaks. Hydrate. If your vision does anything funky, radio us.”
“Got it.”
They walk with me for the short two-mile hike so I’m just another fifteen minutes away from base—Sam hovering far too close, Gladys forging ahead with her machete-cutting-through-bullshit energy. When they’re satisfied the trail is safe and I’m reasonably stable, Gladys stops.
“This is where we leave you,” she says.
Sam hesitates. “You sure you’re good?”
“I’m good,” I say, and mostly mean it.
Gladys nods once. Then both rangers turn back toward the truck.
As they walk away, the forest regains its quiet. Sound softens. Air thickens with scent and shade. My heart slows.
I’m alone.
Almost.
Because the moment the truck disappears down the road, I feel it. That prickling awareness. That pressure between my shoulders. Like the world is watching from between the trees.
I turn slowly. Just enough to scan the edge of the clearing.
Nothing moves.
Nothing breathes.
Nothing shifts.
But I swear—swear—something is there.
A shadow too still.
A shape too tall.
A silence too deliberate.
“Get a grip,” I whisper to myself. “No Bigfoot. No mythical creatures. Just… concussion leftovers.”
I tighten my pack straps and start down the trail toward my station.
As I walk, the forest sways gently around me. Light filters through high branches in gilded beams, illuminating floating pollen and dust motes like tiny worlds suspended in the air. I take deep, steady breaths, letting the rhythm settle me.
My head still aches, but the painkillers are doing their job. The dizziness recedes to a tolerable hum.
I stop once, scanning the trail behind me. Something flickers between two cedars—movement quick and sure, a shift of dark against darker.
My breath catches. But when I blink, it’s gone.
It’s just wind. I swallow hard. Or simply the trees. Heck, at this point, it’s likely just my nerves.
“Bigfoot,” I mutter to myself. “Right. Totally sane. Nothing weird about that thought at all.”
I shake my head, huff a laugh that sounds more tired than amused, and press onward. Because I need to work, and the forest isn’t going to document itself.
And also because—ridiculous or not, hallucinations or not, shadows or not—I want to be back where I belong.
My station appears between the trees minutes later, bathed in gentle morning light. Before I step onto the porch, I pause—hand braced on the railing, eyes drifting to the tree line one more time.
The forest stands still.
Waiting.
Watching.
Warmth brushes the back of my neck—a breeze, maybe. Or something else.
I swallow. “It’s just the wind,” I tell myself, and step inside.