“I’m not sure,” I say, trying to focus through my fear. Through the very real possibility that no matter how close we’ve come or how hard we’ve tried, we haven’t been able to save her.

(sixty-four)

Jackson State Forest occupies fifty thousand acres of reserve land, and is as black in the current storm as an uncharted planet, a nightmare coming true minute by minute. In his dozens of stories over the years, Hap had described every type of challenge in these woods, predators and bad falls, hypothermia, lost hikers. If Cameron has gotten free somehow—a wild, unlikely thought—she could be in terrible danger even without Caleb. But at least she’s in these woods and not anywhere else. I know this territory in my cells, my nerve fibers. If Cameron is here, I believe I can find her.

—

The remaining teams split up and fan out from the site, shining flashlights into bracken and deadfalls and spongy, hollowed-out redwoods, communicating by walkie, calling Cameron’s name. The rain is easing to a cold, intermittent spatter, but the sky stays dark and swollen, making shadows out of everything, cold black air and tree bark, rock and ravine, the going more and more treacherous. The number of potential directions feels dizzying and endless, trails almost nonexistent. At one point, I find myself waist deep in gummy ferns, the ridgeline so murky it feels like I’m swimming instead of hiking. I lurch forward, hearing Will just behind me, and wait for him to catch up.

“I’m going to head down into this valley,” I say, pointing to the slope to our left. “If she’s trying to hide from Caleb, she’d stay off the ridge and stick to dense, lowland areas.”

“Good thought. I’ll go first.”

“We’ll cover more ground if we split up,” I insist. “We can’t have much light left anyway. If you head that way,” I point to the opposite slope, “the valley runs east to west for about half a mile. I’ll be hiking in the same direction and meet up with you before the next rise. We’ll use our walkie if we need to.”

“Okay, but Anna? Be careful.”

I promise him I will before I test my footing, and start inching my way down sideways. Within minutes, he’s gone from sight and I’m deep into more ferns. They slap at my poncho and cling to my hands as I try for a safer angle on the slope. Then before I know what’s happening, the ground goes utterly slick and I’m tumbling down the hill at alarming speed, curling to protect myself while wet black branches pelt me from every angle.

When I finally reach the valley floor, I’m winded and bruised. I’ve fallen two hundred meters or more, almost vertically. “Will!” I call, and then strain for his response.

Nothing.