Dylan set off again, swallowing the slope the way you stumble down an unfamiliar staircase in the dark: one sure step, one hesitant step, one that threatens to send you sprawling.
The mist thickened, clinging to his ankles as if it meant to hold him back. It hid the roots, blurred the outlines, gave the trees the look of ghostly sentinels ready to close ranks.
He wasn't thinking north, or east, or even in any precise direction. His thoughts ran in broken lines, all while avoiding the sodden ground, skirting clusters of ferns that could hide snakes, staying clear of hollow trunks where the silence felt too perfect. Each detour added minutes, maybe hours. But in this forest, a straight line was nothing more than a trap with a red ribbon on it.
From time to time, a branch snapped somewhere behind him. He was learning which ones to ignore and which ones to probe, trying to guess their source.
