Chapter Five

  Rushing wind.

  A barely grasped strap.

  Trails of fire and smoke.

  A silver glint in the sky.

  —And the SNAP of a parachute.

  Ashes wakes early—about an hour before dawn. The forest is still dark, hushed under a sky just starting to pale. She wants the full day ahead of her. No guessing games with nightfall.

  She thinks the wreck is about nine or ten miles northwest. But it’s a guess. Could be less. Could be twice that.

  She builds the fire up one last time and eats the final strip of smoked rabbit. It’s dry and chewy, but it’ll get her moving. No sense packing it. If it spoils, it could do more harm than good.

  With her modest breakfast finished, she sets to work dismantling the shelter. Every knot matters now—every length of 550 cord, every fold of the parachute tarp. She can’t afford to leave anything behind.

  It takes nearly two hours.

  By the time the first light begins slipping through the trees, Ashes is packed and ready. The chute is bundled tightly and lashed to her pack. Her flask and water bag are full, looped securely to her gear. Everything she owns is on her back.

  The fire pit smolders quietly behind her, half-buried in soil like a grave.

  Ashes turns her back on the camp.

  And starts walking.

  She follows the stream, using it both as a source of water and a natural landmark. The memory of her first climb still plays sharp in her mind—how she’d seen the lake and the crash site both from the treetop. It isn’t a straight path, but if she sticks close to the water, she won’t get turned around.

  If she doesn’t make as much distance as she hopes today, she figures she can camp near the lake.

  Might be better to do that anyway, she thinks with a shiver. If the worst comes to pass, and no rescue comes…

  A camp on the shoreline will be easier to spot from the air. More open. More visible. She files the thought away and focuses on moving forward.

  The day wears on, soft forest light flickering through the canopy above. Her boots squelch in damp soil, and the air smells of moss and rain-washed bark. She keeps scanning as she walks—watching for game trails, useful wood, anything edible.

  Around noon, her eyes catch something bright at the edge of the stream—a dense patch of wild mint, its jagged green leaves clustered in fragrant bunches.

  She grins despite herself.

  “Hey there,” she murmurs.

  She kneels, pinching a few stems between her fingers and breathing in the sharp, cool scent. It reminds her of evenings with her mama, brewing herbal tea over a crackling fire.

  She collects a few handfuls, stuffing them into a side pocket of her pack, then plucks a single leaf and rubs it across her teeth and tongue. The flavor stings her gums—clean, bitter, bracing.

  It’s not much.

  But it’s something.

  As she walks, eyes sweeping the ground for anything useful, a strange shape catches her eye near a fallen pine—ribbed and honeycombed, like a dried sponge rising from the moss.

  Ashes crouches.

  A mushroom. Not just any kind—a morel.

  She checks the base, the shape, the texture. Hollow stem. Wrinkled cap. Her papa’s voice echoes in her head: “If it looks like a brain and smells like the forest, it’s gold.”

  A smile creeps across her face. Dinner just got better.

  With only an estimated two—maybe two and a half—hours of daylight left, Ashes reaches the lake.

  It takes her breath for a moment.

  A vast expanse of water stretches out before her, framed on all sides by towering evergreens that rise like sentinels from the shoreline. The forest gives way to a slope of mossy stone and scattered driftwood, then drops into the cold, dark surface of the lake.

  It’s massive.

  She’s reached one end of the long side—probably the northeast tip, if her memory serves. The far shore is nowhere in sight. Just a hazy blue line where water meets sky. The lake must be several miles long, and she estimates at least two or three miles wide from where she stands.

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  Quiet rolls off it like fog.

  No boats. No birds. Just the whisper of wind through pine needles and the soft lapping of waves against rock.

  Ashes adjusts the weight of her pack and takes a slow breath.

  This could be it.

  If rescue doesn’t come—if no one ever finds the wreck—this lake might become her world.

  She quickly finds a sandy patch tucked between clusters of stone, just above the waterline. It's a little exposed, but she doesn’t have the luxury of being picky. The light’s fading fast.

  Ashes unpacks her chute and grabs a few long sticks from the treeline nearby. She rigs up a quick-and-dirty shelter—chute draped over a rough ridge pole, corners staked with rocks, edges tucked with driftwood. It won’t hold against a storm, but it’ll keep her dry from dew and lake fog in the morning.

  Fifteen minutes later, it's done.

  Simple. Ugly. But functional.

  With daylight burning low, she heads back into the woods to reset her snares, placing them well away from the camp. If something comes sniffing around, she doesn’t want it near her sleeping form.

  On the way back, just beyond a bend in the trees, she pauses.

  A marshy patch near the lake glows gold in the late light—tall stalks swaying gently in the breeze.

  Cattails.

  She grins. Jackpot.

  She wades in carefully, boots squishing into soft muck. The plants are thick here, their brown seed heads like candles rising from green blades. She selects a few younger ones—tugging gently until the roots give with a wet pop.

  The white inner cores of the stalks are edible—tender and cucumber-like when raw, starchy when cooked. She peels one down and takes a bite, chewing slowly. It’s watery, fibrous, but surprisingly sweet. She harvests a few more, bundling them with a spare loop of cord, then digs a little for rhizomes—thick, ropey rootstalks that she can roast later for calories.

  She also grabs a handful of the fluffy seed heads, tucking them into a pouch for later. They’ll make perfect firestarter.

  By the time she makes it back to camp, the light is almost gone.

  She debates it for a while, standing at the edge of her camp with the lake at her back and the sky starting to fade into deep blue. A fire would be a luxury. A risk. A comfort.

  But also… warmth. Light. Something to hold onto tonight.

  She decides it’s worth it.

  With her multitool in hand, she ventures into the treeline. The forest here is dense but quieter than she expected—no bird calls, just the rustle of wind in the branches and the faint lap of water behind her. The air is damp and cold enough that her breath shows in thin puffs.

  She starts with the easy stuff—dry twigs, pine needles, deadfall close to the surface. The first bundle is fast, but it won’t last long. She needs thicker branches—something to burn slow and steady.

  She heads deeper into the woods, scanning for anything that’s dry but not too far gone. Rotten wood won’t help her. It’ll just smoke and spit and die out. She tests each branch with a crack between her hands. If it snaps clean, it goes in the pile. If it crumbles or bends, she tosses it aside.

  She finds a wind-felled limb caught between two trees, its bark half-peeled and slick with moss. With effort, she snaps off a few sturdy chunks, hauls them back to camp, then heads out again.

  By her fourth trip, her arms ache, and the cold is starting to settle into her fingers. But the firewood pile is growing—enough for a short fire tonight, maybe a second to warm her in the morning.

  By the time she drags the last bundle into camp, the forest is ink-black. The moon has risen—huge, pale, and bright enough to cast silver shadows across the rocks and sand. It lights her path well enough that she can navigate with some caution.

  She sets the wood down with a heavy exhale and stretches her sore shoulders.

  She selects one of the drier sticks and begins shaving it down with slow, practiced strokes. The curls of wood fall into her palm like paper, light and crisp. Once she has a good handful, she mixes them with the soft, golden fluff from one of the cattail heads she gathered earlier.

  It’s a delicate combination—natural tinder that she knows will catch if the spark is clean.

  She sets the bundle on a wide piece of bark and positions the rest of her firewood within arm’s reach. Around the tinder, she builds a small structure—twigs first, then thicker sticks, each layer carefully balanced to breathe. Finally, a few of the heavier pieces she worked so hard to gather are stacked nearby, ready to feed the flames once they take hold.

  The whole setup is picture-perfect.

  Ashes pulls out the multitool and slides the ferro rod free from its housing. The knife flicks open with a soft snick.

  She holds the rod just above the cattail fluff, angles the blade, and strikes.

  Once. A spray of sparks.

  Twice.

  A single spark lands true.

  The fluff darkens—then flares.

  Ashes moves fast, tucking the tools away, cupping her hands around the tiny ember. She leans in close and breathes gently, coaxing the flicker into flame.

  The shavings catch.

  Then the twigs.

  And the fire is born.

  The fire crackles softly now, casting long shadows across the sand and rocks. Ashes watches the flames dance for a moment, soaking in the warmth on her face, then reaches for the bundle of cattails she’d gathered earlier.

  She peels back the outer layers from a few of the tender inner stalks, revealing the pale, almost-white core beneath. It smells faintly sweet and fresh, like cucumber mixed with spring water.

  She finds a flat stone in the fire ring, brushes it off, and sets it near the coals to heat. Then, using her multitool blade, she slices one of the cattail roots lengthwise and lays the pieces on the warm stone, turning them slowly, letting the fire do the work.

  They blister slightly, the edges browning, softening. She adds a few of the upper stalks next, setting them across a pair of sticks to roast above the flame like primitive skewers.

  It’s not much—but it smells good.

  When they’re ready, she picks up a piece with her fingers and takes a bite.

  The taste is earthy and mild, the texture somewhere between roasted parsnip and potato. It fills her belly just enough to quiet the gnawing ache.

  She eats slowly, savoring each bite, her eyes on the fire, her body sinking into the moment. Her thoughts drift, but only a little—she’s too tired to think deeply tonight.

  When the last stalk is gone and her hands are sticky with sap, she wipes them on her pants and leans back with a sigh.

  The lake laps gently at the shore behind her. The wind is soft now. The stars above have broken through the last of the cloud cover, pinpricks of light scattered across the black.

  Ashes crawls beneath the tarp, pulling her pack close as a pillow. The fire still glows nearby, a low bed of coals humming with heat.

  She lies there, staring out at the water, letting the fatigue settle over her like a blanket.

  She falls asleep.