Page 51 of Dearly Departed

What was it? Black soil, sodden enough to have turned to mud. Tree trunks in vibrant browns. Green leaves.

White.

Something white.

There are grains of rice down near the roots of the tree.

Ten steps later—more rice.

Catherine left a map for me.

I would do anything for her.

Anything. Anything. Anything.

This is the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life.

The hardest thing physically, I mean. The hardest and most foolish thing I ever did emotionally was try to leave Catherine behind in that hotel room.

Emotionally, this hike is the right decision. It’s the only decision. My wife is in distress. She’s hurt. I’m going to find her. No amount of pain is going to stop me.

And there is a lot of pain.

The thought of putting food in my mouth has made me ill for hours upon hours. Days, if I’m honest. Weeks. Perhaps even months.

That means I’m badly in need of calories. I have no reserves to draw on. I’m weak from whatever that infection was and from the antibiotics in the kit. I looked at the bottle. They seemed like a good option in an emergency, and an emergency is what it was.

The first-aid kit did not include any heavy duty painkillers, which is unfortunate.

I am left with my determination and my love for Catherine.

Oh—and the caffeine pills.

They hit me like a recreational drug. I couldn’t close my eyes if I wanted to, and I don’t want to. Every muscle in my body aches and burns. Climbing is torture. Dragging my feet through the mud? Torture.

None of it matters.

I climb and climb and climb, following the grains of rice.

I climb for hours, but the sun drags across the sky. Not hours, then, but it certainly fucking feels like it. I climb until my vision goes gray, and then I lean on the nearest tree. Sitting down means stopping forever.

I’m leaning against one such tree in the dappled shade of the canopy when I see the blood.

It’s only saturated with color when the leaves part just so and the sun hits it directly.

The gap between trees is half as wide as my hand. My first thought is Catherine. My second thought is no. My third thought is spots.

Spotted fur. Some kind of wild cat, I think.

That would explain the gunshot. It would also explain the scratching at the cabin door.

It doesn’t explain Catherine’s scream.

I have no idea where I am in relation to the cabin now, except that I’m above it, so I can’t be sure if this is where the shot came from, or the scream. I can only keep climbing.

Finally, with both of my legs shaking like they’re about to fall off, I climb over a boulder and stop.

There’s a fork in the path. One of the splits goes up and to the northeast. One side goes straight ahead, to the north. It doesn’t look so steep on the lefthand side.