Chapter 19
CHAPTER NINETEEN
An hour ago, Ethan had followed Mei Lin off the wider trail and onto a path, which had narrowed to a thread of earth probably created not by people but by wildlife.
Now, even that was disappearing under wet leaves and slick stone. Branches caught his pack, limbs creaking overhead, occasionally showering them with moisture and swallowing the light.
They’d climbed high enough that they were basically walking through clouds, the mist so thick it might as well have been rain. The cold worked its way through his layers like it had a personal grievance.
Ethan kept his eyes on Mei Lin’s back, staying close enough to catch her if she fell.
She hadn’t stopped to rest again, but she’d slowed considerably. Her breath was ragged, and twice she’d staggered and caught herself on a tree trunk before he could reach her. Each time, she’d barely paused.
He was almost a foot taller than his wife—and not coming off years in a Chinese prison—and he could use a break.
The backpack he’d bought in Hong Kong was digging into his shoulders, his shoes were soaked through, and Han’s messenger bag had banged against his hip enough that he figured a bruise was forming.
Mei Lin was in much worse shape than he was, but she just kept walking. She was amazing, this woman he’d married. Determined to the point of stubborn.
Was she lost? He was afraid so, but he didn’t dare ask. Mei Lin was carrying enough burden already.
Lord, lead us.
At this point, God’s guidance was their only chance.
The trail dipped, then climbed again, so steep that Mei Lin used her hands to help her. As they gained elevation, the undergrowth thinned. Somewhere beyond the thick mist, a stream trickled.
When they reached the top, she stopped.
“It’s okay to rest, sweetheart.” They would need to lie down. He could dig until he reached dry leaves, maybe construct a lean-to. He’d learned to do that back in Boy Scouts, a thousand years ago, but he remembered the basics.
Mei Lin lifted her gaze and scanned the area, as she’d done so many times before. But this time, she seemed to focus on something. “We made it.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. “It’s still here.”
He looked beyond her. The trees were sparser, silhouettes against a dark backdrop—a ridge, he guessed. But there was something else—a structure. It might’ve been a boulder or a trick of his exhausted eyes.
But a roof line came into focus.
It wasn’t a mirage conjured by hope and exhaustion. It was real.
They trudged closer to stone walls and clay tiles on the roof. Small windows were set deep, the glass behind thin iron bars.
“What is it?” he whispered.
“Ranger station, only manned in fire season, and even then, only if the risk is high.”
“When does fire season start?”
Her thin shoulders lifted and dropped. “November, technically, but it’s not like it’s dry.”
It was impossible to imagine that this spongy place ever got dry. “You sure no one’s here?”
“No.”
Fair enough. He set his pack against a tree and eased her down onto it. “Stay here while I check it out.”
She didn’t argue, just rested her back against the trunk.
He crept toward the building, each step squishing audibly on the moist ground.
He set his feet carefully, rolling weight from heel to toe, and worked his way around the building, keeping close to the trees that surrounded the small clearing on three sides.
The fourth was indeed a ridge, probably a spectacular view in the daylight, but they’d lost that an hour before.
The walls were thick. Every window was barred, but they weren’t covered by curtains. He peeked through and could make out shapes.
He paused at each window, looked and listened.
He heard nothing and saw nothing. On the side with the door, opposite the ridge, a trail led down the mountain. There were no vehicles, though. If someone was here, he or she had come on foot.
After circling twice, he approached the door and tried the handle.
Locked. Of course it was.
He stood there, the cold pressing at his back.
Unless he could tear the bars off the windows, the door was their only shot.
He turned on his phone’s flashlight, not wanting to drain the battery but needing to see.
The knob had a standard keyhole—no keypads, not even a deadbolt.
All he had to do was find the key—assuming there was one hidden somewhere.
He ran his hand along the top of the door frame, which was gritty and sharp with rotting wood—he managed to avoid splinters, at least.
He crouched and started feeling around the base of the wall, lifting the loose stones one by one. The fear of getting locked out was a universal thing, wasn’t it? Especially up here, where there was nobody to call for help.
He inched aside a stone no larger than his fist and caught a glint of metal.
It was a small flat key.
Thank You. He wiped it on his suit pants, then fitted it into the lock and turned the knob.
The door eased open into darkness.
Following the beam of his phone’s light, he stepped inside. Stone floor. A table. A cot against the wall. A stove in the corner. A giant poster was pinned above the table. Except it wasn’t a poster but a topographical map.
The place was empty and dry and perfect for their needs.
With the key in his pocket, he hurried back to Mei Lin. She hadn’t moved. She was slumped on his pack, her eyes closed.
“Hey.” He crouched. “We’re in.”
Her eyes opened. He hoisted his pack over his shoulder and took her weight against his side. They inched through the door, and he locked it behind them.
She made it as far as the table, where she sat, peeled off her coat, and bent to untie her shoes.
He crouched in front of her. “Let me.”
Again, she didn’t argue, just rested her arms on the table and dropped her head onto them.
He worked her shoes off, and then her socks, which were soaked through. He took off his own jacket and wrapped it around her feet. She should be warm enough for the moment.
He stood and swept the phone beam slowly around the room. A single bulb was attached to a fixture over his head, but when he pulled the string, nothing happened.
He’d seen a lantern and looked for it again. There it was, on a shelf above the stove—dark metal and half full of kerosene. Beside it were a small plastic lighter and a tin of spare wicks.
He carried the lamp to the table—farther from the windows, just in case—lit it, and turned the wick down as low as it would go without extinguishing the flame. Then he powered off his phone to save the battery.
Soft yellow light filled the room.
A barrel rested by the stove, probably for water, but it was empty at the moment.
There were four sealed plastic water bottles on a shelf and a small stack of tinned food.
A green jacket hung from a peg, and a radio sat on the desk, unplugged.
There must be a generator or something to power that and the lightbulb.
This place couldn’t accommodate them for long, but it would do for one night, maybe two, until he came up with a plan.
After taking a protein bar from his pack and a bottle of water from the shelf, he squeezed her shoulder gently. “Sweetheart, you need to eat.”
She lifted her head. Her hair was damp, plastered to her temples. Her eyes were red.
He tore the wrapper and pressed the bar into her hand. “Food, then water. Then sleep.”
She took a bite and chewed like it took all the energy she had left.
He opened the bottle, drank a few swallows, and set it where she could reach it.
Though his stomach was growling, he didn’t eat. She needed food more than he did.
He grabbed a pair of dry socks from his pack, sat in the second chair, and lifted her feet onto his lap. They were icy cold. He rubbed them, earning a slight groan.
“That’s wonderful.” She started to set the protein bar down.
“Uh-uh. Eat the whole thing.”
“You’re very bossy.”
Ah, there was a glimpse of his wife, behind all the fatigue. “You promised to love and obey.”
She snorted. “Not obey.” But she returned to the protein bar, taking bites, swallowing, then sipping the water while he massaged her feet. When they were dry and less cold to the touch, he pulled the dry socks over them.
Only when she’d eaten the entire bar and drunk half the bottle did he give in. “Come on.”
The cot was bare except for a folded quilt at its foot. He’d never been in the military, but he figured this was about the quality a soldier would get—during wartime, in enemy territory. It was scratchy and stank of mold and tobacco.
He helped her out of her wet clothes and onto the mattress, then pulled the blanket over her. Her eyes closed the moment she was horizontal.
After hanging their jackets on hooks by the door, where they would have a better shot of getting dry, he changed into dry socks, then crawled in beside his wife. The cot was narrow, but he didn’t mind. Between the blanket and his body heat, Mei Lin should be warm.
Her breathing was already steady.
He lay still in the lamplight and listened.
The mountain was quiet. Wet leaves dripped. Somewhere far off, an owl hooted. There were no engine sounds, no voices, no boots.
Either the place would be safe, or it wouldn’t. Either way, they didn’t have anywhere else to go.
He wrapped an arm around Mei Lin’s waist and nestled her close, inhaling the scents of rain and sweat. Faintly, beneath that, he inhaled the wife he’d thought he’d lost—and could still lose.
Father. The word came on a long, slow exhale.
Protect her. Hide us. I don’t have Michael in my ear directing my steps.
I don’t have my father giving me advice.
I have no idea what to do next. I’m at the end of myself.
Please, Lord, guide us. Whatever happens, keep Mei Lin safe and get her out of China.
Ethan reached behind him, extinguished the lamp, and let the darkness close over them.
I need to sleep, so wake me if there’s trouble.
All he could do was trust God to protect them until morning.