Michael stood at the crossroads of indecision. The dirt road stretched both ways, vanishing into the gray distance. To his left, the road curved gently down a slope into thicker woods; to his right, it angled uphill, cutting through a rise toward what might have been lighter forest.
Neither path looked particularly inviting.
He squinted at the dim light leaking through the clouds, trying to guess the time of day. The sky was a slab of unbroken gray, the sun hidden, direction impossible to tell. South. He needed south. Warmer climates, maybe a village, maybe farmland. At least, that was what his instincts told him. He had always heard that if you're lost in Sweden, heading south was the safest bet—closer to towns, closer to roads. That logic might not apply here, but what else did he have?
He turned his walking stick toward the downhill path and muttered, "South it is," though the words felt hollow.
Every step sent fire through his feet. The cheap sneakers he had been wearing when he boarded the bus were never meant for this. The ground was uneven, the soil hard, and his socks were damp with melted snow. Blisters had formed on both heels. Every footfall was agony.
Still, he trudged on.
His throat was raw, his breath fogging as he muttered encouragements to himself. "Just a bit more. Roads lead somewhere. People build roads for reasons. Keep walking, Michael."
He glanced at his watch. He wasn't even sure why. The time meant nothing here. But the act gave him comfort, an anchor to something familiar.
Water sloshed faintly in his pack. He had half a bottle left. The granola bars were dwindling. He needed to find civilization soon or he'd be in trouble.
And then—
A sound tore through the forest.
Michael froze, his stick tight in his grip. At first, he thought it was an animal. A bark. A howl. But no—it was human. A voice.
A scream.
"Help! Someone! Please—help!"
Michael's heart lurched into his throat. He spun toward the sound. It came from the forest off the road, somewhere deeper among the trees. His first thought was to run the other way. Screams in the wilderness were never good news. His second thought crushed the first: what if it was someone like him? Hurt. Trapped. Lost.
He swallowed hard. His ribs ached, his feet throbbed, his body begged him to keep moving. But he turned off the road and stumbled toward the sound.
"Hello?" he shouted, his voice cracking. "Hallå? Är du okej?"
The reply came sharp, desperate, and—shockingly—in English.
"Help! Over here! I'm trapped!"
Michael's heart skipped. English? He pushed through branches, snapping twigs underfoot, the voice guiding him. His breath came faster as he forced his way through thick underbrush, until at last the trees parted into a small clearing.
A man lay on the ground, pinned beneath a fallen tree.
The trunk had crashed diagonally across his body, one of the thick branches locking his legs against the frozen earth. The man struggled, pushing against the wood, his face twisted with effort. He had dark hair, short and tangled, a scruffy jaw, and pale skin smudged with dirt. His clothes looked like roughspun fabric, not modern outdoor gear.
Michael hesitated at the edge of the clearing, adrenaline warring with confusion.
The trapped man spotted him instantly.
"You!" he shouted, voice hoarse. "Please, help me!"
Michael stepped forward. His first words tumbled out in Swedish: "Är du okej? Är du skadad?"
The man stared blankly. "What? Please—I don't understand! Help me!"
Michael blinked, realization dawning. English. He'd been taught English since grade school, used it daily online, read it in books, heard it in movies. It came almost as naturally as Swedish now.
Switching languages felt like flipping a switch. "Are you hurt?"
The man shook his head frantically. "No—no broken bones, I think. Just stuck. Please, I can't move."
Relief loosened Michael's chest. Not crushed. Not dying. Just trapped.
"Alright," Michael said, already scanning the scene. His survival instincts, drilled more by books and games than real-world experience, clicked into place. "Stay calm. I'll get you out."
The trunk was too heavy to lift directly. He knew that much. But there were options. He scanned the ground and found what he needed: a thick branch, almost as long as he was tall. Perfect.
He jammed the branch under the trunk near the man's legs, wedging it into the soil. "I'm going to use this as a lever. When I push, you wiggle free. Got it?"
The man nodded, sweat beading on his forehead. "Yes! Just—please, hurry."
Michael braced his bruised ribs, gritted his teeth, and shoved down on the branch with all his weight. The wood creaked, the trunk shifted, lifting just enough.
"Now!" Michael grunted.
The man dragged himself sideways, grimacing, until at last his legs slipped free. Michael let the lever fall, the tree thudding back to earth. He staggered back, panting. His ribs screamed in protest, but he barely felt it.
The man lay on the ground, gasping, staring at his freed legs in disbelief. Slowly, he pushed himself upright, testing his weight. Nothing broken. He laughed shakily.
"By the Nine…" he whispered. Then, louder, "Thank you. Thank you, stranger."
Michael wiped sweat from his forehead with a trembling hand. Relief washed over him like a tide. He wasn't alone anymore.
For the first time since the bus crash, since the Blind Eternities, since waking in this cold, alien forest—he wasn't alone.