Now

After you dig the shallow grave, you sit inside, at the feet of the body. You must be tired from wrapping him in an old tent and dragging him south of the cabin. Your hands are bloody from digging, something you must bandage before you embark in earnest. If not, you'll risk infection.

Infection within the Briardark is deadly, Siena. If I could tell you this myself, I would.

You cry, though you are reserved, and whisper something to the man your ex-fiancé shot through the heart. A man who, weeks ago, was a boy you were supposed to supervise. I can't hear what you say, but I know you. It is most certainly an apology, though you should not be sorry. You aren't to blame for any of this.

Emerging from the grave filthy, you smack the dirt from your clothing—your hiking pants, Emmett's t-shirt, and Cameron's flannel. You make little progress with your efforts, and begin dragging the soil back into the grave with the dull shovel you found on the side of the cabin. When you're finished, you dig your tool into the mound and heave your bag over your shoulder: an army surplus canvas older than you are. It sits awkwardly on your body, designed for someone twice your size. You adjust the straps as best you can, retie your hair, and squirt the remainder of your travel sanitizer into your palms.

You turn toward the south, your route off the mountain. A handmade bow hangs off your bag, the canteen pocket a makeshift arrow quiver.

You glance back toward the cabin.

Hesitation fills your eyes. You don't know if you're making the right decision, risking your life, leaving those you love for a journey that may kill you.

But you are. The cabin—the Briardark—will be the end of you. Isaac was right. You must leave.

I can't tell you this because of how rightfully afraid you are of me. And I'll keep my distance, but I refuse to let you go alone, Siena.

Resolute, you straighten your shoulders, turn toward the descent, and begin your journey home.

I follow.