Chapter 4 #2
“Hey, there,” I say, voice higher than I’d like. “Wow. You’re… you’re very beautiful. And large. Incredibly large. Have you considered a career as a model? No? That’s fine, you’re doing great in your current field.”
The bear snorts.
Adrenaline floods my system, making my knees feel like they’ve been replaced with cooked noodles.
I slowly raise my arms, making myself as big as a moderately tall, moderately fit human can be—which is to say: not very.
“I’m backing up,” I announce, because apparently I’m the sort of person who narrates his own potential mauling. “I’m just going to… give you space. I’m stringy and full of anxiety; I promise I don’t taste good.”
I take one step back. Another. The bear watches, weighing its options. I can almost see the calculus.
Then, from somewhere behind me and to the left, there’s a crash through the underbrush.
It’s not subtle. Whatever it is, it breaks a branch with a sound like a gunshot, then lets out a sharp, barking grunt.
The bear rears slightly, ears pricking, gaze flicking toward the sound. It hesitates for half a heartbeat, then turns and bolts in the opposite direction, crashing away through the brush like a furry freight train.
I stand there, arms still raised, heart pounding so hard I can feel it in my teeth.
“Okay,” I croak. “Okay. That’s… that’s fine. That’s good. That’s great. Leaving now.”
The logical part of my brain knows I should stay put for a minute. Let the bear clear the area. Breathe.
The rest of my brain is already packing its imaginary suitcase and sprinting for the nearest airport.
I lower my arms, grab my bag and—on reflex—my notebook, because apparently documentation is still a priority even in mortal peril, and start moving back toward camp.
Not running. Definitely not running.
Fine. Jogging a little.
“Don’t run from bears, don’t run from bears,” I mutter as I speed up. “Bear is gone. Bear is scared. Bear is probably filing a complaint about the screaming human. You’re fine. Everything’s fine. No one got eaten. Gold star for everyone.”
Branches whip past me. My boot skids on a slick patch of mud and I windmill my arms, barely catching myself before I face-plant.
“Seriously?” I gasp. “You escape a bear and die of clumsiness? That’s your legacy?”
Behind me, something rustles.
My brain, already operating at Panic Level: Ferret in a Thunderstorm, immediately decides the bear has reconsidered its life choices and determined I’d make a good meal after all.
I glance over my shoulder, feet still moving, and my boot catches on a hidden root.
This time, I don’t save it.
The world tilts. I pitch forward, weightless for a breath, and then something hard and unyielding connects with the side of my head.
White explodes behind my eyes.
Then—nothing.
I’m floating.
That’s my first thought when awareness seeps back in.
There’s no ground. No weight. Just a slow, steady motion, up and down, side to side, like being on a gentle sea.
My second thought is that my head hurts.
Not the “slept funny” kind of hurt. Not even the “forgot to drink water and had three coffees instead” kind. This is a deep, throbbing ache that pulses behind my eyes in time with my heartbeat. Every pulse sends a flash of nausea rolling through my stomach.
I try to open my eyes.
They peel apart like someone glued them shut. The world beyond is a smear of shapes and light. Trees move past in wobbly vertical lines. The sky is an overexposed patch of pale between them.
Something is under me. Supportive. Solid. I feel pressure at my back, my thighs, under my knees. My arms hang limp, fingers grazing fur… no. Skin. Warm. Slightly rough, like someone who doesn’t moisturize and spends their life using their hands.
I blink again, forcing my vision to sharpen.
For a heartbeat, I see him.
A man.
Tall. So tall he fills the top half of my vision even while I’m slung against his chest. His skin is flushed from exertion, broad shoulders bare to the cold air. Dark hair falls into his face, damp with sweat. His jaw is shadowed with stubble, his mouth set in a firm line as he moves.
He looks… naked.
That’s insane. My concussion has gone wild. No one hikes this high into the park without clothes.
His scent hits me a second later—earth and pine and the clean warmth of living fur that makes my hindbrain go You’re safe and my forebrain go Okay, that’s suspicious.
A low, gruff voice rumbles somewhere above my ear.
“…damn humans… no sense of self-preservation… always falling off things… can’t even walk on flat ground without—”
I close my eyes again, because now I’m hallucinating lectures.
“Yep,” I slur, words barely a breath. “Definitely dead. Guilt-tripped by my own brain.”
The voice huffs. The motion continues. The darkness rushes back in, thick and irresistible.
When I surface next, the world is smaller.
My head throbs in a steady, punishing drumbeat. I’m horizontal—on my back, cocooned in warmth. Familiar nylon rustles when I shift my hand. My pillow smells like laundry detergent and campfire smoke and cheap plastic.
My tent.
I blink slowly, each movement of my eyes scraping sandpaper against the inside of my skull. The fabric ceiling hovers a foot above my nose, pale green in the daylight. My sleeping bag is zipped up around me. Someone has thrown an extra blanket over the top.
I don’t remember getting here.
My tongue feels thick in my mouth. I roll my head to the side and immediately regret it when a spike of pain lances through my temple.
“Okay,” I whisper. “Nope. We stay still. Still is good. Still is our friend.”
There’s a water bottle next to my sleeping bag, cap off but resting loosely in place. My hand shakes a little as I reach for it. I manage a few sips before my stomach protests and I have to stop.
Outside the tent, the world is quiet. Not silent—there are always sounds in a forest—but muffled. Like someone stuffed cotton into my ears. Birdsong is distant, slippery. The stream nearby gurgles, but I can’t seem to locate it precisely in space.
Concussion, my brain says calmly.
No, I tell it. We do not have a concussion. We have… a dramatic bruise. A very, very glamorous headache. We are fine.
I try to remember.
Bear.
Running (bad idea).
Root.
Impact.
Floating.
Naked man complaining about humans.
That last part is almost definitely not real.
I shift my legs under the sleeping bag and realize my boots are off. My socks are still on, but my laces have been undone and neatly tucked into the shoes. They sit just inside the tent flap, side by side, like someone lined them up on purpose.
A slow prickle crawls up my spine.
I turn my head—carefully this time—and peer around.
My pack is in the far corner of the tent. My jacket’s been folded—folded, not crumpled—and used as extra cushioning under my head. My field notebook lies beside me, closed, a pencil tucked into the spiral binding.
What’s missing is the satellite phone.
A cold knot forms in my stomach.
That’s bad. That’s very bad. That’s top-of-the-list-of-things-you-don’t-lose-in-the-backcountry bad.
“Shit,” I croak.
I pat around my body, then the sleeping bag, then the immediate ground around me. Nothing. No hard rectangle. No coiled antenna.
“Shit,” I repeat, a little louder. “You absolute idiot, Elias. Where the hell is the phone?”
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to think past the pulsing pain. I must have dropped it when I fell. Or when I was running. Or when I was… being carried?
No. No, we’re not revisiting that particular hallucination right now.
The idea of dragging myself out of the tent to look for the phone makes my stomach flip in protest. My limbs feel like they’ve been filled with wet sand. Every time my heart beats, the world pulses in and out of focus.
“I’ll… look later,” I whisper, to the ceiling more than anyone else. “Later. After a nap. A small, responsible nap. Then we panic.”
I let my hand fall back to my chest, already exhausted from the effort. My eyelids sink almost on their own.
The last thing I remember thinking before sleep takes me is that the blanket is tucked around me in a way I definitely didn’t do myself.
The next time I wake, the light in the tent is dimmer—late afternoon, maybe, or overcast. My head still hurts, but the pain has retreated from “sledgehammer” to “aggressive roommate.”
I blink, swallow, and reach automatically for the water bottle. My fingers brush something else instead. It’s a solid, rectangular shape that feels like cool plastic with rigid edges.
I turn my head and stare.