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For four hours, I scrambled up the black-green bush, squeezing handfuls of moss onto my tongue for the moisture. Sarge’s words tormented me with every thrust of my legs. He isn’t protecting the abuser. His only fault is he let the abuser go. What did he mean?

I emerged into a blast of sun and sky, blinking like a possum, my mouth as dry as the desert, my brain nearly delirious with those two phrases.

Focus on finding Kingi.

I checked the time—after five o’clock—and the map, but there was no mistaking my location.

Panekire Bluffs was a distinctive jutting rock ledge over a glistening, watercolor lake.

Despite my exhaustion, I smiled slightly.

When the two huts were repaired, attracting more hikers, this would be Instagram Rock.

Pacing around the clearing, I found two paths.

Which one led to Kingi’s hut? As kids, our stories often included trails.

The first path had a stake. Too obvious—Kingi would have taken that out.

A couple of minutes into the second path, I found a patch of crushed grass and twigs. He might have passed here.

*

The blue sky began to dull, and I checked my phone: 7:45 p.m. My stomach dropped, anxious—it would be dark soon.

Through the trees I glimpsed a large wooden hut with a water tank. Finally. Yes. And signs of life—a firepit, table and chairs made from logs, a flourishing veggie garden, and what looked like an outdoor shower. Oh, thank God. My heart soared.

I stepped into the wide, grassy grove. About a hundred feet away, pulling the reins from an enormous black horse steaming from a hard ride, was a Māori man so towering and solid you could compare him to a kauri or a redwood.

His brown dreads curled around his head like a crown, and the skin not hidden by his thick beard swirled with the waves of a mataora, a traditional tattoo.

A green wool Swanndri shirt fell to his knees, and a belt of knives bound his hips.

Murmuring to his horse, he flicked up his eyebrows and the corner of his mouth as if he’d made a joke. Like Kingi always did.

“Kingi,” I sang out, laughing with relief and joy. “It’s me, Isla.”

He turned to me, the most wonderful sight in the world. Despite my exhaustion, I sprinted toward him, my pack bumping on my back.

“What are you doing here?” His face creased with concern, the waves of his tattoos folding into each other.

Throwing my arms around him, I pressed my face to his chest. For some reason, his scratchy wool shirt made me sob like a small child who’d been brave while they were lost but suddenly realized how scared they were after all.

My legs were scraped and bleeding, every inch of my face tender and throbbing. I must have looked like absolute shit, but there was time later to tell him about Sarge’s attack.

“Finally, Kingi,” I spluttered. “It’s you.”

Holding me at arm’s length, he bent down so I could see directly into his kind brown eyes. Eyes that told me I was safe, that I’d found my old friend.

“Don’t you know, lady?” His face softened with pity. “Kingi is dead.”