When I’d started the hike, solitude had felt like a gift—space to breathe, to let the silence scour away the months of second-guessing and what-ifs. Time to decide what comes next. Now, as stingy sunlight bled away, unease pooled under my ribs, spreading with every breath.

    Massive storm clouds, bellies swollen with rain, crouched over the mountains. The wind bared its teeth, snapping through my jacket.  A raven’s caw,  jagged as a blade, split the hush. I turned back toward the parking lot. The hike hadn’t given me answers. My boots slogged through mud that felt like indecision—thick doubt, caked in choices I hadn’t dared to make. 

    Jim’s offer was no offer at all. He’d marry me if I insisted on the baby. A half-hearted concession wrapped in an exit strategy. And face it—now that I’d taken a hard look at Jim, I didn’t want him. I wanted the baby, but could I raise a child alone?

    The trail wove between towering Sitka spruce and western hemlock, their dark green boughs filtering the weak light into restless patterns on the moss-laden ground. Some leaned at precarious angles, their roots clutching the earth in a desperate fight against time and erosion. I knew that fight.

    A branch cracked somewhere beyond the trees—a deer, maybe. Or the wind. Either way, my pulse kicked up a warning. My boots bit into damp earth, the rhythmic crunch of loose gravel and decaying leaves a steady tether as dusk deepened. The trail dipped, sinking into a muddy creek bed, and that’s when I saw the fresh brown bear tracks. I stilled. The musky stink of wet fur clogged my nose. A prickle skittered up my spine. 

    I should reverse course, go away from the trailhead, and farther from the bear. I turned, and two bear cubs tumbled onto the path fifty yards ahead, rolling, swiping at each other in a playful scuffle. One scrambled upright, nose twitching as it tested the air.

    Cubs meant a mother close by, maybe watching. I’d already seen the tracks between me and the trailhead. I stepped back, scanning the brush, fingers clenching around nothing. No sow in sight. Yet. But the moment she scented me, she’d charge with no hesitation, no warning. 

    The trail wasn’t a path anymore. It was an ambush waiting to happen. I locked on the bear spray at my belt, lifted it, and listened.

    A low chuff—a momma bear’s warning. Behind me.

    Move. Never stay between a momma and her cubs. 

    I veered off the trail and slipped into the undergrowth, where ferns and devil’s club tangled thick between moss-draped trunks. Quiet. Stay quiet. Watch every step.

    Two hundred feet in, maybe more, I stopped. The forest held its breath with me. No crashing branches. No deep-chested huff of a bear ready to defend her young. I’d angle through the woods, cut back to the trail beyond the bears, and return to the trailhead and my car.

    Except—the world had shifted. 

    I turned. And turned again. The trees stood like identical sentinels in every direction, their trunks charcoal with shadow. The hush clamped down on my chest. 

    Another turn. No break in the undergrowth. No familiar landmarks. 

    I’d been watching the ground, panic herding me forward, not mapping my way back. A slow, sick realization curdled within.

    The sun bled into the horizon, its final streaks of orange pointing west. I squinted against the fading light, trying to orient myself. The trailhead lay to the north, but maybe I was wrong, and it ran east? I turned in a circle. The forest chewed through every scrap of certainty, then spit me out with nothing but questions. 

    I yanked my phone from my pocket. No service. The battery was low, so  I turned it off. I rested my palm against my belly. I’ll get us home. 

    As I forged ahead, the trees pressed close, branches clawing at my sleeves. The sharp tang of pine filled the air. Then the rain began—a steady beat at first, then harder. I shivered, and not just from cold.

    Why hadn’t I told anyone about the hike? But I knew. I didn’t want their questions—not until I had answers.

    Twilight blurred the woods. Rain stitched the forest into a dream from which I longed to wake. The ground turned treacherous—slick hollows, sudden jutting roots—no trail, not even an animal path. Yet everywhere I spied spruce and birch trunks raked with claw marks or scattered scuffs in the dirt, a warning bears had lumbered through. 

    I moved quieter. Grandma’s angry voice echoed in my head: You got yourself into this mess, now get yourself out. Your mother left you on my doorstep; don’t think for a minute you can leave your kid with me. Jim gave you an out. —Take it. 

    Jim didn’t want a baby and didn’t love me. But should I say yes for the baby? His last words before he’d stomped out were, Take the deal. I won’t make it twice.  

    I walked on, and the trees seemed to pull apart, the brush thinning, but  I wasn’t getting out of these woods before dark. 

    Despite the rain, the wind carried something faint—feral, rank. The bear again?  A shiver crawled down my spine. I stilled. My feet locked in place. 

    There, through swaying grass, barely visible in the fading light, a shack. Roof sagging. Dark wood. Maybe I’d find someone. Maybe just shelter. A wall between the bears and me.

    With every step, tension cinched tighter. Instinct thrummed a warning. No sign of life. I paused at the door, hand hovering over the knob. My fingers curled around the doorknob. Rust bit back, cold enough to stop me. Almost.  

    The wind howled behind me, a warning of what waited outside. I pushed inside, my boots whispering against the creaking floorboards. The room smelled of damp rot, stale sweat, and smoke. A wood stove sat in the corner, its surface rusted, the chimney pipe snaking up through a hole in the ceiling. A thin mattress lay on a wooden frame, its blanket askew as if tossed aside. An oil lantern with cracked glass sat on a battered table. 

    Whoever lived here cared only about survival, nothing more. Just like the life I’d have had with Jim—the basics but no warmth.  

    A cupboard door stood open. I moved toward it and looked inside. A battered notebook lay open on the shelf. I pressed my cell on, turned on the light, and squinted in the darkness. Scrawled writing spilled across the page. They don’t understand me. They never will. A list of three names, crossed out: Abby. Lena. Hannah. 

    Something dark stirred beneath my ribs. I flipped the page. She came looking for something. They never see me. Never hear me. It’s their fault.

    What the hell had happened here? I bent, pushed aside dark, stained rags. And found the answer: a coil of nylon rope and dried dirt clinging to the rope fibers. A heavy-bladed knife, dark stains crusted along the edge. Whoever—whatever—had lived in this shack had stepped away from humanity one inch at a time.

    Outside, a branch snapped. I cracked open the door.  Something moved in the forest—not the rustling of an animal, or the wind, or trees shifting. My fingers gripped the canister of bear spray. This shack didn’t offer protection. It was a trap. 

    Move silently, move quickly. I slipped out the door—around the side and to the back, sucked in a breath, and held it. The thing outside had stopped moving. Or—was it—listening to me?  

    I crept into the trees, mud sucking at my boots. The canister of bear spray pulsed warm in my hand. Rain streamed down my forehead. My breaths came shallow and tight.

    Another snap. Just behind me. I didn’t freeze. I ran.

    Branches whipped my arms as I vaulted over roots and rocks slick with rain. No time to think or look back. I felt him—heard him—just behind me—his footfalls pounding like a second heartbeat.

    A flash of movement ahead. The momma bear, her shoulders hulking, water-slicked fur streaked with leaves, her cubs huddled behind her. I staggered and skidded to a stop, my knees threatening to give way. The air around her crackled with warning.

    Look as big as you can. I raised my arms, bear spray in hand, and forced my voice to its lowest register. “No threat.”

    Her snout lifted. A chuff—not a warning, a promise.

    I backed away.

    Behind me—leaves slashed open.

    I wheeled around. The man burst through, a knife glinting in one fist. Sallow face, greasy strands of stringy brown hair, layers of stained flannel and canvas, stiff with grime, hanging like molten skin.

    He’d kill me.

    He lunged. I dashed away, placing him between the bear and me, and then triggered a short burst of spray, straight into his eyes. I leaped back and turned my head. Despite my efforts, the reddish-orange mist burned my eyes like a spicy wall of fire.

    The man screamed, clawed his face, and lurched toward me. I stumbled back and snatched up a broken branch. A roar ripped the forest open.

    The bear charged.  

    I dove for the ground.

    He turned too slow. Her jaws closed on his shoulder and yanked him with a sickening pop. Her claws tore into him, and he howled as the knife spun from his grip.

    I crawled through the muck, crouched behind an old half-rotted tree, and wedged myself into the space between its roots where the earth had slumped away. I held the canister in front of me, ready.  

    My would-be attacker’s shrieks shredded the air. I listened as she finished him.

    Her anger spent, and her cubs protected from danger, she thudded away.

    I waited a long time, eyes burning, before I dared to move. When I wriggled free from the burrow and stood, the light stabbed my eyes. Dawn was breaking. I bathed my eyes by pouring the last of my water into them. As I did, I imagined holding my baby to my breast in five months’ time.

    I learned some hard truths today.  

    False shelter was no shelter.

    I could trust myself to take each challenge in turn. 

    I could face whatever came, the uncertainty of where the road lay, the weight of my choices, and yes—the baby.

    I squinted toward the mountains—their ridgelines could be a compass of sorts. It didn’t matter if I made it to the trailhead; I only needed to get to the road and find a state trooper or a phone. I forced my legs into motion. The rain poured harder, but I didn’t care. The rain, mud, and leaves had helped dilute my smell. I pressed forward through the brush, ignoring the sharp sting of branches scraping my skin. 

    The wind howled through the trees, but I didn’t stop. One step, then another toward where the road might lie, toward something better than survival. 

    Rain clung to my lashes when the scent hit me: asphalt and freedom. I knew this place. I’d made it, no compass but sheer will. And inside, something had shifted. For the first time in months, I didn’t feel lost. I pressed my palm to my belly, felt the soft curve there. The road ahead was mine now.  

    I had myself—and my baby had me. And that was enough.