SAWYER
Rain.
So much goddamn rain.
Angel and I shiver as we hurry through the sloshed snow, our heads lowered as we search for shelter.
I didn’t know rain could be this much worse than snow, but the trees do little to slow it down, and it’s even colder soaking through our clothes. It turns the world into a gray, churning mess, thick sheets of water blurring our vision and slicking the ground beneath us.
We’ve made it past the road and over the peak of the hill, so the ground is even more dangerous here. I can hardly fucking see, but I still manage to make out the slope ahead.
“Watch your footing,” I call out, eyeing the way the earth dips sharply down, disappearing into the mist. The incline is steep, and the mud is already giving way in places, crumbling down in slow, lazy streaks.
Angel, of course, ignores me. He continues on ahead, hands over his eyes to shield them.
“How the hell do we get out of this fucking rain?” he yells a fourth time.
There’s an edge to his voice, an anxiety I recognize but not from him. There’s something truly frightening about isolation.
Luna was right. He wouldn’t have survived this.
I turn my head to eye the trees, searching for something, anything. A hollowed stump. A thick canopy. Something.
I don’t find it, and I’m glad. It’s too risky to stop moving until we find real shelter. We need to get out of the snow as well as the rain. We need a fire. We need to dry our clothes.
Otherwise, we’ll freeze before the storm passes.
“There are caves out here! We’ll find one!” My hands fly at my sides as my foot slips. I freeze, regaining my balance as my heart thumps.
We just have to keep moving.
Angel doesn’t notice that I’ve stopped and continues on ahead, moving too fast. Too anxious. I try to catch up but am too cowardly to chance it. We’re walking at an incline. It’s too slippery.
“You gotta slow down,” I yell as the distance between us lengthens.
Angel looks over his shoulder to see I’ve fallen behind. He stops altogether and cups his hands above his forehead, eyes searching for shelter while he waits for me to catch up.
He lets out a pitiful laugh, creeping to the edge of the slope so he can get a better vantage point from which to see what’s below. “I haven’t felt my toes since we made it over the hill. Another hour of this, and we won’t be able to walk.”
His boots find a narrow section of ground that still has some grass clinging to it, offering the illusion of stability.
Then it happens.
His foot slips, the mud giving way instantly. His arms pinwheel, fingers grasping at nothing but air. For a split second, I see the moment of realization flicker across his face—the understanding that he’s fucked.
Then he’s gone.
“Angel!”
I lunge forward just in time to see him slide, my shoes slipping and nearly propelling me down with him.
His body twists as he tries to stop himself. He doesn’t. The hill swallows him, pulling him down faster, his shout cutting short as he crashes through the underbrush. The sound of snapping branches and rustling leaves follows his descent, and then—nothing.
My stomach clenches.
I move.
Half-running, half-sliding, I follow his path down. My shoes barely keep up with the treacherous pull of gravity, every step unstable and frictionless.
The world blurs past, rain stinging my eyes. My feet skid out from under me, and I go down hard. My shoulder slams into the mud as I slide the last few feet to the bottom.
I land in a crouch, hands sinking into the wet earth, my heart pounding.
Water from a stream rushes around Angel’s sprawled limbs as he lies motionless, dark hair plastered to his forehead.
“Shit.”
I scramble to him, grip his jacket at his shoulders and drag him onto the bank. His chest rises and falls in shallow breaths, but I still find myself pressing my fingers against his neck just to reassure myself. His pulse is obviously there, steady but slow.
“Angel.” I shake his shoulder.
Nothing.
The rain seems to pound even harder. My eyes dart around, searching. Fucking praying.
I don’t know how long he’s going to make it if I have to drag him.
My eyes make something out through the trees, and I fall forward with a stuttered, relieved groan.
A rocky ledge juts from the hillside, maybe twenty yards away. I can’t even tell if it’s the shelter we need, but it’s something to go toward, and it pushes me onto my feet.
“Come on, you useless bastard.” I grip Angel under the arms and drag him toward the closest thing to shelter we’ve seen.
He’s dead weight, his soaked clothes adding to the struggle.
My shoes slip in the muddy slush, but I don’t stop until we’re beneath the ledge.
It’s not perfect, but the ground is rocky and dry, and there are several sticks beneath it that could be used for a fire.
It’ll do.
I drop to my knees to inspect Angel, my hands hovering just above his shivering body. His lips have turned blue, and his tanned, Spanish face is turning pale as Luna’s.
The word fuck sails past my lips as I blow out a deep breath, sighed instead of said. I use my own shivering hands to work the zipper of his jacket. When I get it undone, I hurry to strip it off, then the rest of his clothes.
Now for the fire.
I work quickly, yanking the shoelace from my shoe and searching out a sheltered stick that’ll do.
I find one. A curved branch the size of my arm tucked in the crack of the ledge, dragged by an animal building its home. I hurry to retrieve it and thread the shoelace through. My fingers tremble as I knot it tight and fashion a crude bow.
A straight stick serves as the drill I’ll use to spin against a fireboard that I search for next. I hunt through the scattered debris under the ledge until I find a flat slab of pine that’ll work.
Dropping to my knees, I carve a notch into the fireboard with a jagged rock, my movements frantic but precise. My shoulders scream as I brace the board with my knee and press the drill into the notch, gripping the bow and sawing it back and forth.
I can tell I’m being too impatient even as my panicked movement jerks to create a chaotic rhythm that’ll never work. I know from experience.
Wet cotton clings to my bones, and for a moment—just a moment—hopelessness comes over me.
My hands shake too much.
I haven’t made a fire in a year.
Water is dripping onto my fucking equipment.
I’m gonna fail.
Angel’s gonna die.
I’m gonna die.
I close my eyes and let the bow and drill clatter on rock. I take a few deep breaths, pull off my soaked jacket, and throw it to the side. My shirt joins it.
Water dribbles down my forehead from my soaked hair until I comb the wet strand back. Chin tipped backward, I flex my hands and focus on stiffening my shivering muscles, calming my mind.
I’ve hiked Kokoda with no map and no guide.
I’ve done four-hundred sixty miles of continuous mountain ridges on the Baekdu Daegan Trail.
I’ve explored every type of terrain, climate, and ecosystem on nearly every continent.
I know how to make a fucking fire.
As I open my eyes, I set the drill back in place with the bow and get to work.
My eyes hone in on the divot in the bark while I keep my movements quick, smooth, and consistent. I grind and spin, grind and spin.
Smoke curls from the notch.
My pulse kicks up, and I lean closer, eyes locked on the tiny ember forming at the base. Dark powder collects around it, and I take a steady breath, tapping the coal into a nest of shredded birch bark. My hands are shaking as I cup them around the nest to shield it from the wind.
“Come on,” I murmur, voice tight with frustration. I blow slow and steady. The ember glows brighter and catches on the dry fibers with a faint crackle.
Flame.
Relief crashes into me as the fire licks hungrily at the bark. I add thin twigs, then thicker ones, building it up until the warmth is enough to take the edge off the cold.
Angel stirs beside me. His head rolls to the side as he lets out a faint groan. His eyelids clench, but he doesn’t wake. I press the backs of my fingers to his cheek—ice cold. His body is shivering, but it’s not enough.
Rolling my neck and cursing under my breath, I unbutton my pants and strip, cold air biting at my damp skin.
I drag Angel closer to the fire, step over him, and lay my body against his back. I wrap my arms and leg around his limp form and rub my hand over his chest like a clingy lover.
The things you do in the name of friendship.
The warmth is slow to build. I feel every shudder that runs through Angel’s body, every involuntary twitch as the heat seeps into his skin.
Minutes pass.
Then, a sluggish breath from Angel, followed by another.
I wait.
Finally, he shifts, his fingers flexing slightly against my side.
His breathing hitches, and then, with the slow awareness of a man coming back to life, he rasps, “Why… the fuck… are you naked?”