Now I am returning to “normalcy” like it never happened. Like it’s easy to make friends. Easy to forget how I lived every minute of the past eighteen months in fear that they would find us.
That he would find me.
Panting, I catch my father’s gaze. He stands motionless, watching me, waiting for it to pass.
I grit my teeth to block the rest from coming.
Because the thing is, I’m not afraid of remembering Tunis.
It isn’t hiding in that safe house, barely forty-eight hours ago, that chills my bones and fills me with panic—it is remembering what happened before Tunis.
It is fear that if I remember any of it, I will relive all of it.
Catching the wind, the light bulb sways and flickers off. Then it rocks back into place and lights up again, illuminating my father’s face. He’s always been so good at concealing his emotions. I fluctuate between despising him for it and envying him.
He resumes skimming the hard wax off the ski edges, but his eyes remain on mine.
“Yes, Dad, I saw his face,” I say quietly.
“Your mother asked me to check with you, make sure you understand he’s gone. That you understand what this means.”
Nodding, I stand and set the glossy ski boot upright. “It means I can go out for mudslides.”
CHAPTER 6
In the late afternoon light, beneath an awning of evergreen needles, the trail is awash in a silky mist.
I find the entrance marked by a wooden post adjacent to a tan clapboard house where pockets of brambles and quaking aspens merge into spindly pines and wild birch trees.
According to the map my father spread out on the kitchen counter, this indiscernible path of dirt dividing dense foliage is a shortcut to Charlotte’s.
Although I’m running three hundred meters parallel to the road, a vast wilderness seems to separate me from civilization.
Out of habit, I look behind me as I run deeper into the forest. No one is there, but I’m not used to being alone, to having this freedom. I inhale deeply. Waterford smells of autumn—pine needles, burning leaves, and damp forest.
Storm clouds hover above the thick canopy of intertwining pine branches. It starts to drizzle—I gather my hair under the hood of my new windbreaker.
Quickening my pace, I curve around a bend in the trail, jump over a gnarly tree root, and skid to a halt.
Stifling a cry, I grasp a pine bough to keep my balance. Seriously?
My father didn’t warn me? Wolves in the Carpathians. Lions in the Serengeti. He forgot grizzlies in Montana.
Instinctively, I run my hand over the waistband of my leggings—but I know my FN 5-7 is at home, tucked beneath my pillow where my parents insist I keep it.
The bear’s backside is three feet wide; its head is the size of a boulder. Sniffing and grunting, it is so close I can see clumps of mud caked into its russet fur.
With an enormous paw, the bear whacks a tree limb, snapping it in half.
Although rain falls steadily, pattering onto the dirt in an acoustic rhythm, I hear something in the distance, getting closer.
I listen harder, gauging direction. I glance left, then right.
Heavy breathing. Fast. Too fast. Erratic. Multiple. Unsynchronized.
Beside me, a thicket of trees stirs. Two furry brown shapes tumble out of the dense forest undergrowth and scamper onto the path, loping toward the grizzly.
At this moment, three facts about North American grizzly bears come to mind: they are a subspecies of Siberian brown bear; they can run fifteen meters in one second; a grizzly with two cubs is as dangerous as a pack of hyenas.
I need to move. Immediately.
I start backing away. Spattering raindrops muffle the sound of my footsteps. Each step creates more distance between me and the grizzly. Two meters. Three.
Crack! I snap a branch.
The grizzly whips her head around. Her amber eyes meet mine. A plume of air rises from her nose.
I take another step back.
Wrong move.
She rears onto her hind legs. A low, threatening snarl tears from her mouth.
Thud! Landing on all four legs, she leaps forward.
Rapidly, she narrows the distance between us.
Bending my knees, I extend one arm toward the ground. My fingers fumble along the mud and pebbles until they clasp a jagged stone, barely the size of my palm. If I can somehow … hit her in the eye …
But she is charging me at full speed, ferocious growls ripping from her throat.
I try to recall my father teaching me how to fend off a grizzly attack, any method I can use to prevent her from killing me.
Frantically, I drop to the ground, fold my arms over the back of my head, and curl my knees into my chest. Play dead. That’s what I’m supposed to do. Don’t run. Don’t fight back.
A guttural growl nearly ruptures my eardrum. She pins me down.
I cover my neck with my forearms.
Huffing and grunting, she swats my back, violently rolling me over.
My skull hits the dirt.
She strikes my thigh fiercely with her paw. I strangle the shriek in my throat.
She is going to maul me. Tear off my limbs. Rip me apart. I have to fight back.
Gnashing and baring her teeth, she arches her neck backward.
I secure the stone in my hand, preparing—
Suddenly a familiar sound punctures the rain, slicing open the forest like a firecracker.
In quick succession, it repeats. Six times total.
Instantly, the weight of the grizzly lifts from my chest. The growling stops.
Pattering thuds fade into the distance.
Like a thousand pinpricks, the hairs on my neck stand straight. The rain is falling harder now, splintering when it hits the ground. But only one sound echoes in my ears—Pop!
Dazed, I lift my head. The grizzly has vanished. In the distance, I hear breathing again. Low and steady this time. Human.
Footsteps are ten meters away. Five. I see a shadow moving, a blur in the rain.
Fear grips me. I scramble backward, but someone reaches me before I can stand.
CHAPTER 7
“Hey, don’t move.” He puts a hand gently on my arm.
I flinch, lodging my back against the tree root.
“Whoa,” he says soothingly. “She’s gone. Cubs too.”
Since I was five, I have been instructed to assess people; someone is either a threat, or not.
I run my fingers along the mud until I retrieve the jagged, palm-size stone.
Even kneeling beside me, I can see he’s tall—strong, young, with tousled light brown hair and smooth skin. Beneath his shirt is an outline of broad shoulders. A bolt-action rifle is slung across his back.
Where was he? How’d he reach me so quickly?
He scans my body quickly; his eyes descend from my head to my neck, over my chest, and down to my legs, then back up to my face.
Heat flushes my chest.
My hair has fallen over my face in a tangled mess of mud and leaves. I push it back under my hood.
“You’re not cut,” he murmurs in a deep, clinical voice, sounding both relieved and surprised.
I glance down at my leg. The bear must have struck me with her forepaw—only fur and muscle—no claws. My leggings are ripped from the sharp rock edges on the ground; the material flaps open, exposing a swatch of my pale thigh, now turning a grim violet shade.
“Can you stand?” he asks.
“Yes.” I rub the back of my head. “I’m fine, I think. Thanks.”