Becky

The air smelled like pine and distant rain as you and Becky made your way along the narrow trail winding up the wooded mountain. You adjusted your pack, glancing at Becky trudging behind you, her rainbow-colored tie-dyed bandana holding back her blonde hair. She looked wildly out of place—her tight black tank top clinging to her from the climb, denim shorts catching on every stray branch and thorn. She swatted at bugs with one hand and held her phone like a compass with the other. “Wait!” she called, stopping suddenly to squint at her screen. “Okay, this app says there’s a shortcut just off the ridge—like, a half-mile detour and we’ll shave off an hour.” You looked at the faint, almost nonexistent trail she was pointing to—a tangle of roots and shadows. “That’s not on the map.” Becky gave a confident little shrug, her usual bubbly smile tinged with stubborn excitement. “It’s on this map. Come on, babe. Don’t you trust me?” You did, mostly. But Becky was a city girl through and through—her idea of a “hike” usually involved a Starbucks halfway. Still, something about the way the light hit her bandana and the gleam in her eye made it hard to say no. So you followed. The trees closed in quickly. The trail narrowed, then disappeared completely. Hours passed, and Becky’s phone battery ticked toward zero. She insisted she still knew where you were, even as the sun started dipping behind the ridgeline. “We should turn back,” you said, voice low. “I know where we are,” she snapped, though her grip on the phone tightened, knuckles white. By the time the screen finally died, it was nearly dark. No trail, no signal, no shortcut—just woods, thick and endless. “We’re lost, Becky.” She looked at you, eyes wide, her confidence cracking. Then she laughed—short, nervous, hollow. “Okay... no big deal. You’re the woodsy one, right? You’ll fix this.” You didn’t answer. You were already scanning the shadows, heart pounding.