She ducked and slid around the trees and bushes, much like she did the night before. This time, she was much more coherent. Her hands anticipated unseen obstructions, as if her fingers possessed topographical instinct. Crouching low, she posted her wet hand on a flat rock for stability and kicked out her legs in a fluid motion, gracefully sliding under a thorny bush. A shiny shadow of her hand evaporated on the baking rock, tagging it with dark paint.
She moved effortlessly—each step marching to a familiar pulse. Sweat rolled off her fingertips, dotting the dry land. Her limbs slipped and slinked independently from thought. An impressed grin began to surface, but her grumbling stomach and parched mouth smothered any joy.
As she approached the lake, she was finding it remarkably easy to move through the thick forest. Her pulse gained tempo with each step, and she steadily accelerated from jog to run. Jumping over downed trees and sidestepping tight passages, she marveled at her newfound agility. It was the best she’d felt the entire trip—perhaps her entire life.
| 5 |
She reached the fringe of the forest at a full sprint. Her untied boots scraped against the wet ground, and she slid to a graceful stop just before the shoreline. Kicked gravel skipped across the lake, as she let out a long battle cry. She wiped the sweat from her face and noticed her damp hands; they were different—smaller. Her soaked shirt clung to her shape, and she pulled it off her skin. The rung fabric spit into the sunlight, and she braced for cold air but was distracted by the balled fabric in her fist; the warmth seemed to stain her clothes gold. She squeezed the shirt and watched as streams numbly traced her forearm.
The sun shimmered on the rippled water, but her eyes did not squint to take in the vibrant blues and greens of the park. She could feel the leaves struggle to recover from the cold evening. The wind rattled each leaf, dryly applauding her return to the lake. She felt a deep pulse—a dull throbbing at the base of her eardrum shifting equilibrium and gravity toward the lake.
Her eyes widened, and she quickly turned her back to the water to locate the canoe. She pictured it slumped on its side like a homeless man holding her open and empty water bottle, but she found nothing there. A strange pulse pulled her muscles and tightened her neck.
The absent canoe didn’t register with her immediately. Dumbfounded, she paced around the area but found no sign of it—not even boot prints from the night before. She was certain she hadn’t
docked anywhere west of the shoreline—it was impassible. She scratched her sweaty scalp and could sense the pulse coming, like an annoying hiccup. She quietly laughed. Her laughter grew, maddening her reason and bending her reality. She screamed loud and long; her raspy voice projected for miles across the lake.
The canoe was gone. The water bottle, filter, fishing pole and daypack, which included a satellite phone, multi-tool and survival guide—all gone. She could feel desperation and fear take over her body like poisoned blood and began kicking gravel and punching empty air. Hot liquid flung from flailing limbs and penetrated the dirt. Her eyes streamed, and she madly paced the area, searching for a moment of clarity between the deafening pulses.
The wind mimicked her anger and whipped in all directions. Leaves prematurely detached from their branches and choppy waves grew and crashed onto the shore. A wave slapped her boots, forcing her to recoil. She paused and thought for a moment.
Her head whipped around in search of close friends suffocating their pointed laughter. With wide eyes she stopped looking for the canoe, called out, and scanned the area for familiar faces. She heard no one—found no one. She screamed again, and again. Each scream was accompanied with an intense pulse and a punch of wind, pulling apart clouds.
She followed the shore east and scanned the land and lake. There was no sign of anything or anyone. She marched to the edge of the graveled shoreline overlooking jagged boulders that stuck out like painted icebergs. Their surfaces, black and slick, were too steep to continue any further. Waves lapped against the rocks, carrying debris from the entire lake. Violent wind heaved the tainted waves onto the stones and created thick, rusty foam. The foam danced over the currents and clung to the rabid shoreline.
The land to the north was dense with trees and thorny brush. Further east stood a sheer rock face six stories high. Cracks and discoloring on its surface displayed a time line of water elevation and glacial events but showed no signs of safe passage. It was impossible to continue on foot.
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