Page 24

Day Eleven:

The universe was testing us. That was the only explanation for why everything kept going wrong.

Mia dropped our only good camera into a river.

Max fell again (he really needed to stop trying to act cool near cliffs).

Ethan almost got pecked to death for trying to flirt with an eagle.

And then there was me—standing still, staring at a distant hilltop, because I swore I saw something.

It all started as a normal trek—or, well, normal by our standards. Mr. Dax had passed out in the bus with headphones in, trusting us to “collect valuable footage” while he “rested his eyes.” Classic.

Mia, who almost always had the camera, tripped over a rock and launched it into the river like a tribute to Poseidon.

Silence. A perfect three seconds of stunned disbelief.

Just like that we knew we were screwed.

Max, attempting to lighten the mood—or maybe trying to impress Shun, whom they were in bad terms by the way—climbed a nearby boulder and struck a pose. “Nature bows to me!”

Nature immediately rejected the offer. His foot slipped, he tumbled down with the grace of a pancake, and we all winced as he landed in a thistle bush.

Ethan, meanwhile, spotted an eagle perched dramatically on a tree and took it as a personal challenge.

“Hey, gorgeous,” he said, finger-guns aimed at the bird. “You fly solo?”

The eagle responded with the fury of an apex predator who had just been catcalled. Feathers flew. Ethan screamed. Somewhere in the chaos, he lost a shoe.

And yet, despite all that noise, despite the absolute sitcom-level of disasters happening around me, I felt it.

A pull.

I turned away from the chaos and looked up toward the hill. The air felt... thicker there. Like the light bent differently, more reluctant to touch that patch of earth.

At first, I thought it was just a tree.

Then it moved.

Just a twitch. A ripple in the shade.

I squinted.

There—eyes.

Faintly glowing. Watching.

I blinked, and it was gone.

But it left something behind. Not a footprint. Not a whisper. Just... presence. The kind that clings to the back of your neck, cold and coiled.

He was out there.

He was watching.

My stepdad.

The memory hit like a punch to the ribs—shadows too tall in the hallway, a creak on the stairs at night, the way his smile never reached his eyes. The monster wasn’t gone. Just quieter. Just waiting.

Somewhere beyond the hill.

And then—someone sneezed. Loudly. From a bush.

A branch cracked under someone else’s boot.

Chaos resumed.

“You good?” Ethan appeared.

“I thought I saw something. Glowing eyes,” I uttered, but before Ethan could push further Joy called my name.

Handing me the map—a physical one, because Mr. Dax insisted on bringing one, which once saved our asses by the way—I knew we were officially, unquestionably, catastrophically lost.

It looked like someone had printed it during the Cold War and then folded it into an origami bird for eighty years. Half the landmarks were smudges, and the other half were lies. But despite its ambiance I knew we were screwed.

“This is fine, right Clark?” Joy said, her voice way too cheerful for the situation. “It’s not like we needed direction on this school-funded trip into the wilderness.”

I didn't respond.

“I found us,” Max announced triumphantly, jabbing the map.

“You’re pointing at the lake,” Shun said with more enthusiasm than she should have. Clearly, their relationship had taken a vacation. “We're nowhere near a lake.”

Max turned the map sideways, after dramatically staring at Shun. “What about now?”

“That’s the compass rose!”

“Oh.”

Mia zoomed in on the map with her phone. Her battery promptly died, possibly out of spite. She sighed like a tragic soap opera heroine and tossed the phone dramatically into her backpack.

I stared at the horizon, resisting the urge to curl into the fetal position. “We’re in the middle of nowhere,” I said, more to myself than anyone else. “As in, the point on the map labeled ‘here be nothing.’”

Shun nudged Joy. “Or worse. Influencers.”

Ethan had taken off his hoodie and was using it to fan himself like some kind of off-brand forest prince. “This is fine,” he said. “Nature’s great. Love it. So much dirt. And bugs. And birds that hate me.”

“Again,” Joy reminded him, “you flirted with an eagle.”

“It had mysterious eyes.”

“It had murder eyes, Ethan,” I muttered.

Max sighed deeply and threw himself onto the grass like he was auditioning for a

wilderness-themed fragrance commercial. “Maybe if I fake my death, a helicopter will find us.”

“Or a vulture,” Shun muttered.

I checked my phone—no service. I checked Mia’s phone—also no service. I even checked Mr. Dax’s phone while he snored loudly in the bus like a warthog with sinus issues. His lock screen was a motivational quote: “Every misstep is a step forward.” Inspiring. Also deeply ironic.

“The motel’s twenty-seven miles away,” I finally said. “We wouldn’t make it even if we left now and started sprinting like our GPA depended on it.”

Joy raised her hand. “I vote we don’t do that.”

“Seconded,” Mia said. “Also, this isn’t my fault. I dropped one camera, not our collective sense of direction.”

“Blame Mr. Dax,” I said. “He took itinerary duty after Principal Catherine was unimpressed by our budgeting.”

I sighed and then glared at the forest. “So now we’re spontaneous. And stranded.”

Max was trying to roast a marshmallow over a flashlight beam. Ethan was still recovering from his near-eagle assassination by fanning himself. Mia had begun documenting our descent into madness with her phone, zooming in every time someone made a dramatic complaint.

“You know,” Ethan said, staring at the sky, “this might be romantic under different circumstances.”

“Like if we weren’t slowly being hunted by a dark forest?” I asked.

“Exactly.”

Shun shrugged. “Could be worse.”

“How?” I asked.

She paused. “Okay, I got nothing.”

At that moment, Mr. Dax stirred in his sleep, muttered something about “survival builds character,” and rolled over. I briefly entertained the idea of replacing him with a tree stump.

“We camp here,” I said finally.

The words felt heavier than they should’ve. Still, someone had to take charge, and apparently, that someone was me.

First, we had to fetch firewood in the dark—wasn’t exactly on my high school bucket list. But when you're stranded in the middle of nowhere with a bunch of overenthusiastic classmates and a teacher who’s currently unconscious, you end up doing things you never signed up for.

Like walking into a creepy forest where every branch sounds like it’s whispering your GPA’s imminent doom.

“Split up?” Joy suggested brightly.

“No,” I said, a little too quickly. “That’s how horror movies start. And we’re already a dark-forest sighting away from becoming a cautionary tale.”

If you're wondering when or how I ever watched a horror movie—same way I got tangled up in all this mess: peer pressure, bad snacks, and my best friends who apparently think "survival horror" is a bonding activity.

FYI, I spent the next week sleeping with the lights on, jumping at every creak, and giving my closet the side-eye like it owed me money.

“We’ll stay within yelling distance,” Shun offered. “Unless someone starts getting dragged into the underbrush. Then we’re running.”

“Solid plan,” I muttered.

We collected firewood—dead branches, twigs, and, in Max’s case, what was very clearly a snake.

“Dude,” Ethan said. “That’s hissing at you.”

Max blinked at it. “Oh. I thought it was a curly stick.”

He dropped it. It slithered off, offended.

Back at our makeshift base (a clearing with a tilted log and mild existential dread), we stacked the wood.

Secondly: start a fire.

Ethan claimed he’d once lit a fire using just friction and determination.

He used a lighter.

Eventually, the fire crackled to life, casting flickering shadows across our tired faces. The flames glowed warm and comforting—until you remembered we were surrounded by woods and potentially being watched by forest cryptids.

Joy stretched her legs and clapped once. “Alright. Campfire choir, anyone?”

I groaned. Here goes my ears.

“I’ll start,” she said, before launching into a song that sounded suspiciously like a love ballad being strangled by a raccoon.

“Ohhhh the eaaaagle didn’t love Ethaaan,” she sang.

“Joy,” Ethan said, scandalized. “Too soon.”

“Ohhh the eagle saw his cringy flirrt and said, ‘Boy, not todaaay!’”

Mia wheezed with laughter. Even Shun was smiling. Max joined in with backup beatboxing, which somehow made it worse.

“I will never emotionally recover from this,” Ethan quipped, hugging his knees.

“I have video evidence,” Mia added. “For historical preservation.”

Eventually, Joy's singing devolved into something that could only be described as banshee karaoke. She belted off-key until her voice cracked, then dramatically collapsed into Mia’s lap.

“Thank you, thank you,” she rasped. “I’ll be here all night.”

“Unfortunately,” I whispered.

The fire popped, sending a tiny ember drifting into the night.

The warmth started sinking into our bones, replacing the creeping chill of panic.

We didn’t have tents. Or a bathroom. Or proper adult supervision (Mr. Dax was now loudly murmuring something about algebra in his sleep). But for a minute… it wasn’t so bad.

The group quieted down.

Mia leaned against Joy. Shun stared into the fire like it held all the answers to life. Ethan lay flat on his back, possibly rethinking his entire existence. Max tried roasting a snack he found in his pocket—probably a melted protein bar.

And me?

I kept glancing toward the trees.

I didn’t say anything. Not yet. But something still felt… off. Like we weren’t alone out here. Like the woods were listening. It wasn't my paranoia. I could tell. It was someone.

At some point in the night, I found myself seated between Shun and Joy.

Then, I broke.

Not with a dramatic collapse or anything. It just...spilled. Quiet. Tired. Like a thread snapping.

I let it all slip out.

“I think he’s still alive.”

They both froze.

Shun paused.

Joy lowered her leg from mid-air and blinked. “Who?”

“My dad,” I said, and my voice came out too level, like I’d rehearsed it in my head a hundred times. Maybe I had. “I think he’s been faking it. Hiding. Watching.”

There was a long, fragile silence.

They didn’t ask what are you talking about?

or are you sure you’re okay? —because they knew.

They knew. They were the ones who sat outside the therapy office with me in sixth grade when I couldn’t say my own last name without shaking.

They were the ones who helped me burn that old photo album.

They knew about the nightmares. The crying fits.

The hollowed-out version of me that existed for years.

“Clark…” Shun said softly, his eyes already glassing. “That’s not something you say lightly.”

“I’m not saying it lightly,” I snapped, then exhaled. “I wouldn’t joke about him. I hate him. But he’s back. Or something like him is.”

Joy leaned forward, her tone gentle in that rare, uncharacteristic way she reserved only for broken things. “Are you sure it’s not your mind trying to fill in shadows again? You said the therapy helped.”

“It did,” I murmured. “But lately… everything’s slipping. I see him in dreams. Hear his voice behind doors. And today, that shadow—I swear it was him. Not just a memory. Not just trauma. Him.”

I could barely get the last word out.

Joy paused, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “Does this have to do with Ethan?” She turned to me, adding softly, “You know… because he’s a—”

“No,” I cut in—too quickly. The denial came sharp, too sharp. “If anything, he’s been there for me.” That last part slipped out with a conviction that surprised even me.

Shun leaned forward, voice gentle but probing. “Does he know?”

I shook my head. “No.”

“We’re staying with you tonight,” Shun declared, with no room for debate in her voice.

I opened my mouth to argue, but Joy beat me to it. “Just like the old days. Stargazing.”

I grinned subtly and pointed towards the stars vetting them. “There. That star? That’s the tail. Definitely a flying raccoon.”

“Flying?” Shun scoffed. “It’s clearly falling.”

“You’re falling,” Joy said.

“Into disappointment.”

And just like that, we were kids again. Drawing wild shapes in the stars.

Laughing at how bad they looked. Arguing over whether something was a sword or a spoon.

I traced a crooked spaceship above us with my finger and dubbed it “Clark’s escape pod.

” Joy cackled. Shun insisted it looked more like a teacup.

I hadn't mean to say as much as I did. But as the firelight danced on Joy’s freckled face and Shun passed me a blanket without a word, it felt… safe. Like the trees themselves were holding space for my secret.

Neither of them asked for more. Shun gave my shoulder a small squeeze. Joy laughed as she pointed at another star.

Frankly, sometimes they knew me more than I knew myself.

One by one, the others joined us. Mia. Fred. Even Max, grumbling as he kicked at the dirt before flopping down beside us with dramatic reluctance.

And then Ethan.

He emerged from the shadows like he belonged there—hands in pockets, eyes reflecting the firelight. He didn’t say anything, just sat across from me, the fire between us flickering like a heartbeat.

It wasn’t long before he leaned back on his elbows, eyes skyward. “That one,” he said, pointing, “is a dragon eating a taco.”

“No way,” I said, too fast. “That’s clearly a swan.”

We stared across the flames at each other, the firelight dancing in his grin. Mine was more of a glare, but there was no real heat behind it. Just… something simmering.

The others kept tossing up ridiculous shapes—Joy saw a penguin on a skateboard, Max claimed a double-headed chicken—but I barely registered them. My gaze kept flicking back to Ethan. Sometimes he looked away. Sometimes he didn’t.

We weren’t speaking anymore, not out loud. But every time we pointed out a new shape, it felt like we were—like our fingers were tracing messages across constellations only we understood.

And in the warmth of the fire, surrounded by laughter, something in me softened.

Not enough to say it.

But enough to feel it.