Chapter Four
Abigail
The morning of her fourth day brought a false sense of security.
Abby woke up to the sound of birdsong instead of her own racing heartbeat. The air inside the tent was brisk, but she had slept through the night without waking up in a cold sweat. It was a small victory, but out here, she was learning to count them.
She made her way down the slope to the creek, her Prada sneakers slipping slightly on the damp, pine-straw-covered earth. She found a cluster of smooth, hefty rocks near the water’s edge. She picked up two, cradling them against her chest, and turned to head back.
She didn't see the moss slicked across the slanted slab of shale until her heel hit it.
Her feet went out from under her with terrifying speed.
Abby let out a sharp gasp as she fell hard, the heavy river stones dropping from her arms. One stone splashed harmlessly into the water.
The other caught the edge of her shin on the way down just as her knee slammed directly into the jagged, exposed edge of the shale.
The pain was instantaneous and blinding. A hot, electric shock radiated all the way up to her teeth.
"Ah, shit!" Abby hissed, rolling onto her side and clutching her leg.
She squeezed her eyes shut, fighting a sudden wave of nausea. For a long minute, the only sound was her own ragged breathing and the rushing water. When the black spots finally cleared from her vision, she cautiously pulled her hands away.
Her yoga pants were torn right below the knee. Beneath the shredded fabric, a nasty, jagged gash ran a few inches down her shin. It was deep, bleeding sluggishly but persistently, the bright red blood stark against her pale skin.
Panic, cold and sharp, flared in her chest. Infection.
Her car had died as soon as she had arrived at the clearing four days ago. She was miles from any paved road, let alone a hospital. She had no cell signal. If she couldn't walk, she was stranded.
"Okay," she whispered, her voice trembling. "Okay, get up. Just get up."
Using a nearby birch branch for leverage, she forced herself to her feet. Her knee throbbed with a dull, heavy ache, but it held her weight. Not broken. Just a severe bruise and a deep laceration.
Limping heavily, she dragged herself back up the slope to the campsite. Every step was a negotiation with gravity. By the time she reached her tent, she was drenched in a cold sweat, her hands shaking so badly she could barely unzip the flap.
She tore into her supplies, dumping the contents of her cartoon first-aid kit onto her sleeping bag.
It was utterly pathetic. Two packets of antiseptic ointment, a handful of cotton swabs, a couple of alcohol wipes, and a dozen small adhesive bandages decorated with SpongeBob characters.
She stared at it, a hysterical laugh bubbling up in her throat.
She was trying to survive the Montana wilderness with a kit designed for scraped knees at an elementary school playground.
Abby grabbed her water bottle and a clean bandana.
She poured the water directly over the wound, biting down hard on the inside of her cheek to keep from crying out as the cold water hit the exposed tissue.
She ripped open a tiny alcohol wipe, wincing at the sharp, chemical sting, and cleaned the edges as best she could.
The cartoon bandages were useless. Instead, she took the antiseptic ointment, smeared it across the gash, and used the bandana to bind the wound tightly, tying it off with a knot just below her knee.
She leaned back against her cooler, exhausted, her leg pulsing with a steady, fiery burn. It wasn't perfect. It probably needed stitches. But she had handled it. She hadn't frozen, and she hadn't given up.
She closed her eyes, resting her head against the plastic lid. "Add that to the badge collection," she muttered to the empty clearing.