Untraceable

Preface

Nature will talk to you if you listen. Every sound tells you something.

~

I know the exact moment I went wrong.

Three weeks, two days, twenty-two hours, and thirty-three minutes ago.

I had no clue a few small decisions could puncture the thin bubble of my perfect world.

I zigzag through the forest’s brown pillars like I’m barreling in a local rodeo. The internal rhythm keeps me running at a steady speed along the broken path. Left, right, left, right. My muffled breath echoes in my ears, making me feel as if I’m underwater. Sinking. Drowning.

Don’t stop, Grace, or you will die.

I veer off the main path and into the arms of the darkening woods. Gnarled branches, shaped like broken fingers, comb my hair and scratch my skin. I fight against a clump of twisted vines grabbing at my ankles. Jerking. Pulling. Ripping. The rhythm of my running becomes choppy and uneven as I sludge my way through the curled tangles of vegetation. My lungs sear from the lack of oxygen. Burning.

Just soon as I round a corner, I slip behind a mammoth oak to catch my breath. A brown rabbit scurries by me and disappears into the safety of a prickly bush, giving me hope that maybe I can escape too.

My eyes dart around, searching the monotonous woods for a way out. I need to calm down. Can’t lose it now.

My chest rises and falls as my lungs finally pull in enough oxygen to settle my nerves. Pure air sweeps through my body like the dry wind over a starlit desert. Blowing away the doubt, and erasing any trace of fear. Everything Dad’s ever taught me about wilderness survival comes flooding back.

Suddenly, I know exactly what to do.

Examining my GPS watch, I pinpoint my coordinates and map a way out. After assessing the area, I tiptoe out of my hiding place and backtrack down the trail, careful not to disturb anything that will give away my position.

I disguise my tracks all the way back to Dead Man’s Cliff. After securing my backpack, I clutch onto the cragged rocks and scale the steep wall, careful to place every toe and finger just right. My palm hits a sharp edge and begins to bleed. Both arms begin to spasm from the strain. My toes cramp underneath my weight as they press against the tiny ledge. I creep up the steep rock like a lizard, careful not to send a shower of rocks or crumbling dirt onto the path several feet below me. My arms quiver, threatening to numb.

At the top, I fight against all the pain and summon every last ounce of strength I have to pull myself over the ledge. Instantly, I roll onto my stomach and flatten against the cool dirt, scanning the horizon. The sun punches through the thick canopy, dotting little amoebas of light along the forest floor. I listen for the slightest sound and search for the tiniest movement.

Nothing.

As a wildlife enforcement officer, Dad believes the woods will talk to those who are still enough to listen. Closing my eyes, I concentrate on the space around me.

Listening. Waiting. Afraid to breathe.

A light breeze slithers through the ghostly forest. The leaves rustle and the trees hiss, whispering secrets to each other. The forest appears to exhale then hold its breath. It’s as quiet as a graveyard at midnight. Nothing scurries, burrows, or twitters. The trees stop swaying and freeze, as if they’re hiding too. Then I hear it. The distant snap of a random twig.

The hair on my neck bristles.

They’re still after me.