The pain in her ribs was different now. She looked down and saw a long, thin sliver of the bike’s spoke had penetrated her clothing and pierced her just below her right breast. She scooted into the relative cover of the grass, and with every movement, the spoke jiggled, tearing skin and muscle. She stopped, took a few deep, deliberate breaths, pulled it out and pressed her hand over the wound.

The puncture was small, she assured herself. Painful, but no big deal. She could survive this.

Within five minutes, she saw Mara running toward the bike, crowing with so much laughter, Kellen knew she thought she’d killed her. Before Mara realized she hadn’t, Kellen crawled deeper into the sodden grass. Then, keeping low, she raced toward the redwoods.

She was close. Closer. Almost there…

She heard Mara scream with fury.

Kellen broke cover and dove for the depths of the trees.

A shot blasted past her.

That damned rifle. If Kellen had any firearm, she could even the odds, but to have nothing…

The mighty trees had taken the typhoon and created a haven, a grove made up of whirling redwood needles and spirits groaning with the effort of resisting the storm.

Kellen ran, no plan but to survive. She knew where she needed to be. One mighty tree had in its death fallen into another, providing a pathway up into the protective branches. She found it; a broad old tree at a steep angle. She climbed like a monkey, using hands and feet, and made it into the security of the living tree. She crouched there on a massive branch next to the massive trunk, and waited.

It was always dim in here.

Now, with the towering clouds above, it felt like midnight.

She couldn’t see Mara. Mara wouldn’t see her.

Directly below her, Mara flipped on a flashlight.

Kellen was a fool. But she watched Mara, sat very still, and concentrated on being one with the tree.

Mara was walking slowly, waving her flashlight from side to side, and occasionally, she paused as if she had found something interesting. She walked past Kellen’s tree, then backtracked, and without looking up, she said, “You’re bleeding, Kellen. I’m following your blood tracks.”

Kellen looked down at herself. She could see nothing in the dark, but she could feel the warm wet seeping through her fingers. Yes. The puncture from the bicycle spoke must have been deep, because she was dribbling blood.

Mara shone her flashlight into the branches, waved it back and forth, focused on Kellen. “There you are,” she crooned. She lifted her rifle onto her shoulder and aimed.