The map said right.
The map had also listed a campground that turned out to be three picnic tables and a hornet problem.
I took the right.
Grass slapped the undercarriage. The sedan lurched through a rut deep enough to throw my shoulder against the door. Pain flashed down my arm. I kept both hands on the wheel and pushed harder.
Behind me, Dex slowed at the fork.
For one glorious second, his pickup disappeared in the dust cloud I’d kicked up.
Then his grille slid back into view.
“Persistent,” I muttered. “That’s cute. I hate it.”
The service track bent around a stand of lodgepole pines and dropped into a long, slanted stretch with a washout cutting across the middle. I saw the dip too late. I braked, swore, and took it at an angle.
The front tires hit first.
The sedan bounced. My seat belt snapped tight across my chest. The phone slid off my thigh and clattered somewhere near my boot. The back end dropped with a crunch that sounded expensive, personal, and deeply final.
I got the car moving again, but the wheel shook under my palms.
Dex crossed the washout behind me without the truck even breathing hard.
“Great,” I said. “Captured by a man with ground clearance.”
The road narrowed again. Branches clawed along the passenger side. A chip of old paint flaked off the hood and flew backward. I kept my eyes on the strip ahead, searching for anything useful. I needed a clearing, a wider spot, a trail, or a miracle with decent traction.
The trees opened.
For half a heartbeat, I thought the map had been right.
Then I saw the gate.
Heavy steel bars crossed the road ahead, orange rust eating along the hinges. A Forest Service sign hung crooked from one post. A chain thick enough to tow a house looped through the center and disappeared under a padlock the size of my fist.
Beyond it, the track continued toward sunlight like a cruel joke.
I slammed the brakes.
The sedan skidded sideways. Gravel sprayed. The front passenger tire hit a pointed chunk of shale, and a sharp pop cut through the engine noise.
The steering wheel jerked.
I fought it, but the car dragged right and stopped with its nose angled toward the weeds, steam hissing lightly from under the hood and one front tire sagging into the dirt.
For two seconds, the engine ticked and my blood beat hard behind my ears.
Then the black pickup rolled into the clearing behind me and stopped across the only way out.
Dex killed the engine.
The sudden quiet landed harder than the chase.
Cicadas rasped in the trees. Heat shimmered off both hoods. Dust drifted through the clearing in slow gold sheets, coating the windshield, the weeds, my arms.
I grabbed the phone off the floorboard and shoved it deep into my right boot before his door opened.
