“Penryn?”

I realize Raffe's been talking to me.

“What?”

“Could they be kids?”

“Could what be kids?”

“The attackers,” he says slowly. Obviously, I’ve missed a piece of the conversation. “As I’ve said, the bite marks seem too small to be adults.”

“They must be animals.”

“Animals with flat teeth?”

“Yes,” I say with more conviction than I feel. “That makes more sense than a kid taking down an entire family.”

“But not more sense than a gang of feral children attacking them.” I try to shoot him a look that says he’s crazy, but I suspect I only succeed in looking scared. My brain buzzes with images of what might have happened here.

He says something about avoiding the road and heading uphill through the forest. I nod without really hearing the details and follow him into the trees.

CHAPTER 13

We mostly have evergreens in California, but there’s enough fall foliage that covers the forest. We can’t help but crunch at every step. I don’t know about other parts of the world, but at least in our hills, I’m convinced that the whole story of skilled woodsmen walking silently through the woods is a myth. For one thing, there’s simply no place to walk during autumn where you can avoid the fallen leaves. For another, even the squirrels and deer, birds and lizards make enough noise in these hills to make them seem like much larger animals.

The good news is that the rains drenched the leaves, which dampens the sound. The bad news is that I can’t navigate the wheelchair on the wet hillside.

Dead leaves get trapped in the spokes as I struggle to force it forward. To lighten the load, I strap the sword onto my pack and carry them on my back. I throw the other pack to Raffe to carry. Still the chair skids and slips on the wet leaves, constantly heading downhill as I struggle to roll it crosswise. Our progress slows to a crawl. Raffe offers no help but neither does he offer sarcastic suggestions.

We eventually pick out a clear path that seems to go in the general direction we want to head. The ground is mostly level on the trail and there is far less foliage on it. But the rains have turned the dirt trail into a mud bath. I don’t know how well the chair will work in the mud, and I’d rather keep it running in smooth condition. So I fold the chair and carry it. That works for awhile, in an uncomfortable, awkward way. The most I’ve ever carried the chair before was a flight or two of stairs.

It becomes obvious very quickly that I won’t be able to continue to hike carrying a wheelchair. Even if Raffe offered to help—which he doesn’t—we wouldn’t make it very far lugging an awkward metal and plastic contraption.

I finally unfold it and set it down. It sinks in, the mud greedily sucking at the wheels. It only takes a few feet for the chair to get completely clumped in mud to the point where the wheels freeze.