I used to live in the mountains.
Not literally. But close.
Every weekend. Every vacation day. Every long Friday.
Back then, my knees didn’t complain.
Boots by the door. Trail maps on the fridge. Dirt in my car.
The mountains made me feel brave.
Then one storm changed everything.
Twenty years ago, I was hiking alone on a ridge.
My name is Claire.
Back then, my knees didn’t complain.
Thunder rolled in fast and low.
The sky was blue.
Then it flipped.
Wind hit like a slap.
Branches snapped.
Thunder rolled in fast and low.
I muttered, “Nope.”
And then I heard it. A sound that didn’t belong.
I turned toward my valley camp.
Rain came hard. Sideways. Cold.
Lightning flashed so close my teeth buzzed.
I ran.
And then I heard it.
A sound that didn’t belong.
Another sob.
A sob.
Small. Quiet. Human.
I stopped.
“Hello?” I yelled.
Another sob.
I pushed through wet brush.
“It’s okay. I’m here.”
And there he was.
A little boy. Maybe nine.
Curled under a pine like he was trying to disappear.
Shaking. Soaked. Eyes huge.
Not just scared.
Terrified.
His teeth chattered.
I crouched slowly. Hands up.
“Hey,” I said. “It’s okay. I’m here.”
He flinched.
“You’re safe,” I said. “I promise.”
His teeth chattered.
“I— I can’t—” he stammered.
“Don’t be afraid.”
I yanked off my raincoat and wrapped it around him.
His whole body jolted like the warmth hurt.
I leaned in close.
“Don’t be afraid,” I said. “I’ll protect you.”
He swallowed hard.
“My name is Andrew,” he whispered.
Getting him to my camp was ugly.
“I’m Claire,” I told him. “And you’re coming with me.”
His eyes filled.
“Am I gonna die?” he asked.
My stomach dropped.
I forced my voice steady.
“No,” I said. “Not today.”
“Where’s your group?”
Getting him to my camp was ugly.
Mud. Wind. Dusk.
He slipped. I caught him.
“Hold my hand,” I ordered.
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