Mom was sitting against a tree on the edge of our campground. I didn’t want to walk across the dirt or go back inside and get my shoes, so I called her name twice. She didn’t move.

As I picked my way across the rock-covered ground, I laughed like it was a trick. But she wasn’t just sitting against a tree. One leg was bent awkwardly to the side, not broken, but not how anyone would ever sit. Her arms were splayed beside her in the pine needles, holding nothing, doing nothing. Her head was tilted to the side, one cheek against the bark. Her eyes were open, looking at me but not.

Then I got close enough to see the blood on her neck: two wounds with a little stream running from each one.

I got on my knees and grabbed her wrist. It twitched like something releasing, and for a second, I thought she’d get up. That her eyes would flash with that bit of excitement when she knows she’s pulled off something marvelous, and then we’d laugh.

But she never laughed again.

I didn’t laugh again for a long time either.

I still don’t. My laugh is a surprisingly deep chuckle. It sounds so much like Mom’s that every time I laugh, I feel like I’m stuck in that moment again, waiting for her to smile.

I’m still half in the memory when I start walking again and crash into something hard and unyielding. I stumble back.

A cold hand grips my arm and keeps me upright.

My glare meets a crisp white button-up shirt, and I assume I’ve stumbled into one of the many corporate workaholics heading home after reliving their tired day over multiple beers, but then I look up.

He’s not a businessman. Sure, he’s got the black slacks and white button-up, but it’s rolled to the elbows and unbuttoned at the top in a way that looks like it never gets buttoned, and he wears black suspenders that most businessmen probably wouldn’t be caught dead in. And he’s young, not much older than me, with sharp features softened by curly dark auburn hair that falls at every angle around his face. If he were smiling, he might look chaotic and charming, but his mouth is tight, and his dark brown eyes are hard.

All of it doesn’t quite add up, like something about him is just off.

And his hand is still gripping my arm way too hard.

I step back, and he lets go.

“My apologies.” His voice is a low, soft rumble.

“I wasn’t looking,” I answer as I take another step back.

He puts his hands behind his back, but he doesn’t move away or walk on.