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16

ZOEY

Around noon, I finally stop sobbing.

There wasn’t just one thing that set me off. A bunch of little things did.

Stubbing my toe on a rock. Missing my family. Thoughts of Minnie. Dropping Juliet off because our friend date was done.

But the real culprit was beer.

I knew, even as I was cracking open my fifth can of Coors, that I was making an unhealthy choice. When I’d first started on my antidepressants, I was lucky enough to discover that one drink had no noticeable effect on my mental health. But there’s a threshold, and when I pass it, I roll dice with misery.

Now, after spending a night getting to know Juliet, I know she wouldn’t have judged me or made me feel bad about needing to stay sober. But at the start of our little camping trip, she’d shown up with a cooler full of beer, proudly declaring we were going to get wasted in the wilderness.

The idea sounded so fun . I convinced myself the repercussions weren’t as bad as I remembered.

Mistake.

I barely made it halfway home when the wretchedness crashed over me. Not the true darkness that arrives slowly and drags me under the surface. This is a malfunction with my meds and hopefully short-lived.

I parked on the side of the road as the tears fell in rivers. Eventually, I calmed long enough to drive again, but only made it as far as the front porch before I collapsed on a rocking chair and wallowed in my unexplainable sadness.

Well, there is an explanation, just not a satisfying one. My brain sometimes decides to be unhappy without cause.

When the misery subsides, I’m left with itchy eyes, a sore throat, and an aching head. All of these lend a sharp edge to my voice as I search for my dog.

“Bruce!” The screen door opens with a creak as I move to the back porch, calling out for the furry brute. “Bruce! Dinnertime!”

The sun hasn’t set, but the day seems almost done as charcoal clouds gather in the sky. A rumble of thunder warns of a coming storm.

If I had Wi-Fi at this goddamn cabin, then I would’ve been able to check the weather. And if I had checked the weather, I never would have let Bruce out to wander freely when there’s about to be rain. Trying to dry off a dog that weighs almost twice as much as I do is not a tango I want to dance today.

Only solution: get him back inside before the rain comes.

“Bruce! Don’t make me come looking for you!”

I let him out when I stumbled inside a while back, still in the midst of my sobbing haze. Honestly, I’m surprised he didn’t scratch at the door hours ago. As another minute or so passes with no sign of the mastiff, I accept that I can’t just linger on the porch.

Grumbling about poorly trained dogs that don’t listen to commands, I pull on my sneakers and grab his leash. I start my search by circling the yard, looking to see if he just fell asleep and was too passed out to hear me calling.

No sign of a giant tan mound of fur—and Bruce is not an easy target to hide.

Apparently, he decided to go on an adventure in the woods.

The woods mean dirt and twigs and leaves. So many random things I’ll have to scrub him clean of if he gets wet on his jaunt. There’s still time, a slim chance I can find him before the downpour.

Problem is, the forest stretches out in all directions, and I’m not sure what way he went.

I circle around to the backyard again, calling his name as I go, just in case. As I scan the line of trees, I notice a break in the branches. Not a trail exactly, but the grass seems to have been flattened, as if it was stepped on.

While I waffle between trying the not-trail or staying at the cabin, another crack of thunder sounds out like a warning. Or the start of a countdown timer.

“Fifteen minutes. Straight in and straight out,” I mutter to myself.

If I don’t find him, then I’ll just pile an arsenal of towels by the back door.

The scent of pine and damp air surrounds me the moment I step into the forest. I focus on my annoyance because the minute I let it go, worry will set in. Bruce might seem like an unbreakable mammoth, but he’s not immortal.

What if he got lost?

What if he hurt himself?

No. Stop it. He’s just being an ass.

As I push through the undergrowth and duck under low-hanging branches, the not-trail becomes a no-way-in-hell- anyone-could-call-this-a-trail.

“Bruce!”

The air takes on a humid, sticky texture, and the sky grows ominously dark above the canopy.

Rain is coming, and I don’t think it’s going to be a little sprinkle.

“Bruce!”

A root trips me up, and I stumble, barely catching myself before I face-plant. A snarl of frustration seeps from my chest.

“If you don’t show up in the next five seconds, then you do not get to lick my ice cream bowl tonight. Do you hear me? No dessert!”

The woods are silent, all the chirping birds and chattering squirrels having gone to ground in anticipation of the coming storm. They’re probably watching me from their nice, warm nests, laughing at the silly human wandering aimlessly through the trees.

“You have five seconds, Bruce! Five!” The thick air muffles my shout.

No dog.

“Four!” I call out, a growl in my voice.

No dog.

“Three!” More growling.

Only, this time, it’s not mine.

Immediately, my frustration vanishes, no room for it left in my body. Every inch of me has gone still, frozen in place by wary fear.

The forest is quiet.

I thought … I was sure …

But maybe it was thunder.

Or maybe it was …

“Bruce?” This time, I don’t shout, keeping my voice just above a whisper.

Silence.

No dog and no growling.

I take another step, my movements noisy with the crack of twigs and the crumbling of dead leaves.

And then, even over my self-made racket, I catch the sound again.

A low, threatening growl.

There’s an animal nearby, and it’s not my easygoing mastiff.

“Shit. Shit, shit, shit.” Chanting the curses aloud, I slowly turn in place, searching for the owner of the noise.

But the storm clouds have blocked out the sun, and the woods now sit in a perpetual twilight. I’m surrounded by looming trees and thick, shadowy brush. Plenty of places for an animal to hide. Anything could be stalking me, and I won’t know what it is until their teeth tear into my throat.

A wolf? Maybe.

Or a bear? Do bears growl?

Whatever it is, I’m screwed.

What weapons do I have?

A leash.

Yeah, great, I’ll just hook it to the wolf-bear’s collar and take it for a soothing walk. That’ll definitely circumvent any possible death by mauling.

“Stop being sarcastic and think,” I mutter to myself, trying my best to push away the rising tide of panic.

People go hiking in Colorado all the time. This isn’t the first instance of someone stumbling across a wild animal. There are ways to survive.

I just need my brain to focus enough to remember them.

With frantic thoughts, I try to scroll through my mental Rolodex and come up with what little wilderness knowledge I have. Bears are supposed to leave people alone in the fetal position. So, my best bet is to curl into a ball on the ground and hope it does nothing more than sniff me.

That is, if the animal is a bear.

What if it’s a wolf?

Lying on the ground will make it easier to tear me to shreds. I should climb a tree to get away from a wolf.

But bears can climb trees.

Another growl is overwhelmed by a thunderclap, and for a moment, I think my heart gives up in fear. When it restarts, the pounding has adrenaline coursing through my veins, demanding I make a decision.

I choose the only logical solution I can fathom in the heat of my fear.

I need to climb a tree, and once I’m up high enough, I’ll get in the fetal position.

Is that even possible?

Will it work?

Time to find out.

This time, when I scan the shadowy forest around me, I look for a tree that will serve my purpose. The wind picks up just as I choose one. I grasp the rough bark of a low branch, pressing the soles of my sneakers against the trunk as I heave myself upward. Hooking my heel on the limb, I’m able to mount the thing with the grace of a hippopotamus using a balance beam.

But I’m up.

Time to get up farther. Pulling myself branch by branch, I’m about halfway to a height I figure is safe from wolves when the clouds dump their load. As my fingers slip, trying to find a grip, I pray to the universe that Bruce is far away from here and that the creature growling at me doesn’t like getting wet.

When I judge myself a good fifteen feet off the ground, I perch on the thick branch, hugging the tree trunk and trying my best to curl into a ball. The rain pounds down, soaking my sweatshirt and yoga pants. The steady thrumming of it against every surface drowns out all other sounds. I have no way of knowing if the creature has left or if it’s at the foot of the tree, circling me even now.

Lightning cracks across the sky, illuminating the twisting branches in an eerie, disjointed display.

As I shiver in my soggy clothing, I try to think of a way out of this mess.

Staying here is no good. While Colorado fall days are pleasantly crisp, the nights drop close to freezing. Pair that with my wet clothing, and I’m rolling the dice with pneumonia.

But if I leave my perch, I’ll probably be met with a pair of hungry jaws.

If I can’t stay here but I can’t climb down, what other solution is there?

The sky splits with another angry flash, and I flinch at the noise.

With the spotlight-like flash illuminating my surroundings, I realize just how close the neighboring trees are. Their branches overlap, beckoning me like a flimsy rope bridge over a deep crevasse.

The limbs sway in the wind, but I can’t help considering their escape. If I’m careful, take my time, lay my feet right, and grab what I need to grab, I could theoretically traverse the tree tops all the way back to Grandma Minnie’s yard. The whole time, I would be out of reach of wolves, and even if a bear climbs this tree to follow me, would they try hopping from branch to branch? Surely, they weigh too much to pull off the same maneuver I’m planning.

Sheets of rain crash down harder, causing shivers to rack my body. The cold, wet weather isn’t going to help with my grip, but if I don’t leave this tree soon, I’m not sure I’ll be able to move my quickly cramping fingers.

Slowly, I release my death grip on the tree trunk, moving my grasp to an overhead limb. Then, I inch forward. The wood creaks under my weight, but I can already brush the smallest twigs on the neighboring tree.

I’ve just about worked up the courage to make a grab for the first step in a long journey when I hear a noise over the torrential downpour.