Chapter Forty-Two
Brooklyn
Morning never arrives in the mountains; it just slowly replaces the dark with a different shade of cold.
By the time the sky begins to lighten, my body feels heavy — like I’m made of wet sand instead of bone. The aches haven’t disappeared, but they’ve settled into something more manageable. A dull throb. A reminder. A warning.
Caleb has been awake the entire night.
I know because every time I surfaced from the shallow, trembling kind of sleep that isn’t really sleep, he was in the same place — listening to the woods.
Listening for him.
The sky is a deep slate gray when Caleb finally shifts and says quietly:
“We move now.”
His voice doesn’t startle me. It never does.
He waits for me to sit up on my own, to gather myself, to breathe. He doesn’t offer his hand unless I reach first — something I didn’t expect to notice, but do.
We start north, weaving between tall pines and clusters of deadfall. Movement is slow. Careful. My legs feel stiff at first, but they warm with use. The coat he gave me traps heat against my chest and stomach. The ground crunches softly beneath our feet.
The silence of the forest is strange this morning.
Not empty.
Not peaceful.
Poised.
Like everything is holding its breath.
Caleb notices it too. I see it in the way he pauses every few steps, tilts his head, listens.
Not for sound.
For the absence of it.
A squirrel darts from under a log — the sudden motion nearly pulls a gasp out of me.
Caleb’s voice is low. “Good.”
I blink at him. “Good?”
“Animals are moving again. When he was close last night, the forest went quiet.”
My heart beats uncomfortably hard.
“So he’s… farther now?”
Caleb nods once.
Not gone.
Never gone.
But not on top of us.
We continue.
The air is colder in the ravine we cross, frost clinging thick to the fallen branches. I move slowly down the slope, placing my feet exactly where Caleb points. When the pain in my abdomen flares, he doesn’t ask if I’m okay. He already knows I’m not. He simply adjusts the pace.
There is something strangely grounding about that.
We stop briefly near the frozen stream — not close enough to be exposed, but close enough for Caleb to gather a handful of snow, letting it melt in his hand before offering it to me to drink.
It’s shockingly cold, almost painful — but the relief of moisture is immediate, like my body thanks me on contact.
“Small amounts,” he murmurs. “Slow.”
I nod.
We walk again.
Not fast.
Not loud.
Just moving because stopping means being found.
Hours pass this way — or maybe minutes — time doesn’t feel real here.
Then — harsh, sharp, sudden — Caleb freezes.
One hand raised.
I go still instantly.
The silence is deeper than before.
Weighted.
Holding something inside it.
Caleb leans slightly, listening — every muscle precise, controlled.
“What is it?” I whisper.
He doesn’t answer yet. He is listening too hard to waste breath.
Then he says, very quietly:
“He stopped searching.”
A chill slides through me, different from the cold around us.
“What does that mean?”
Caleb’s voice is low, grim.
“It means he’s not wandering anymore. He’s thinking now. Hunting instead of chasing.”
My mouth feels dry again.
“He’s waiting for us to move,” he says. “He knows your body won’t let you stay in one place long.”
A strategy.
A trap.
A shift into patience.
“He’s smart,” I whisper.
Caleb nods once.
“He’s patient,” he replies. “Patience is worse.”
I wrap the coat tighter around my stomach.
The forest has gone still again.
Like the world is listening to something I cannot hear.
We climb a ridge slowly, following a deer path half-hidden beneath snow. My breath fogs in front of me, each inhale and exhale loud in my ears.
The air changes at the top — thinner, sharper, carrying farther.
And then—Voices.
Faint.
Distant.
Cutting through the trees like ghosts carried on wind.
Not hunting calls.
Human calls.
Calling names.
My heart stops.
Not metaphorically.
It actually stops.
My chest goes tight, my lungs forget how to work, and for a moment I can’t hear anything except the rushing in my own skull.
It’s him.
I can’t see him. I can’t hear his name.
But I know.
Jackson.
My knees nearly buckle, and I brace myself on a tree.
Caleb’s hand touches my arm — not grabbing, not restraining. A signal.
Wait.
I force myself to listen.
The voices are too far to understand words — but the tone is familiar.
Urgent.
Focused.
Determined.
Searching.
For me.
Tears well hot in my eyes before I can stop them.
Caleb watches the treeline, every sense sharpened.
“It’s them,” he says softly.
My breath trembles out of me — relief and pain tangled so tightly they’re indistinguishable.
I want to scream his name.
I want to run.
I want to tear through the trees and into his arms.
But I don’t.
Because Caleb is right, sound travels.
Hope can get you killed just as easily as fear.
“We go to them,” Caleb says. “But slowly. Quiet. No shouting. No breaking cover.”
I nod — barely — because if I move too fast I’ll fall apart.
Every part of my body feels electric — like the world is vibrating under my skin.
My voice is a whisper, “He’s close.”
Caleb nods once.
“So is he.”
The forest holds its breath.
We move.
One deliberate step at a time.
Not toward safety.
Toward a collision.
Because now there are two hunters in these woods —
and only one will reach me first.
The snow is quieter here.
Not softer — just quieter. Like sound decides not to exist in this part of the forest. The pines rise tall around us, their branches heavy and bent, sky a muted wash of cold gray between them.
Caleb moves three steps ahead of me, guiding by silence instead of words. Every footfall is precise. Controlled. Learned. I try to match him, but my legs feel unsteady — not just from exhaustion.
From knowing.
From hope that feels like it’s burning under my skin.
The voices drift closer now — not loud, but clearer. The cadence familiar in a way that breaks something open inside me.
Sharp commands from a familiar voice.
And then — a sound I don’t hear so much as feel, Jackson’s footsteps.
I know them.
Even here.
Even now.
Caleb pauses behind a thick pine trunk, looks back at me, and holds up a hand — wait.
I nod, though waiting feels impossible.
Then, movement ahead.
A shape between trees, maybe forty yards away. A figure wearing winter camouflage, moving with purpose — not frantic, not desperate.
Focused.
Hungry for truth.
Searching.
Jackson.
My heart doesn’t just beat — it surges.
My breath leaves me like it’s been punched out.
I don’t step closer.
Jackson doesn’t either.
He is turned slightly, scanning the ground, attention angled outward.
Then—
Caleb shifts his foot — just slightly — the faintest crack of a frozen twig.
It’s barely sound at all.
But Jackson hears it.
His head lifts.
He turns.
His eyes find us.
And the world just—stops.
There is no wind.
No cold.
No sky.
No forest.
No danger.
Just him.
His eyes are wild and tired and terrified and alive. His breath catches, almost a gasp, almost a laugh. His shoulders drop, like something inside him finally stops fighting for air.
My hand flies to my mouth — not to hide — just to hold myself together.
I don’t move.
He doesn’t either.
But everything in him is moving toward me.
His voice doesn’t come. Not yet. Because the moment is too big for sound.
Caleb doesn’t speak.
Doesn’t step forward.
Doesn’t interrupt.
He simply stands still, understanding the shape of this moment is not his to occupy.
Jackson’s eyes trace me — my face, my clothes, my shaking, my belly wrapped in someone else’s coat.
No judgment.
Just devastation.
Just relief so sharp it hurts to look at.
He breathes my name — but it’s not spoken.
It’s felt.
Brooklyn.
My knees weaken. Tears break. The world comes back all at once, too bright and too cold and too real, but he is still there.
He is real.
He is here.
He found me.
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