"Mist Trail, Red Jacket":
I was a park ranger at Yosemite National Park, stationed near the trailhead of the Mist Trail that led to Vernal Fall. The day was busy, with hikers of all kinds—families, solo adventurers, and groups of friends—crowding the narrow paths, their chatter mixing with the distant roar of the falls. My job was to keep an eye on them, answer questions, and make sure they stayed safe in this wild, beautiful place. But no matter how much we prepared, some days reminded us that nature didn’t always let us win.
I was checking my gear—first aid kit, water, rope, and radio—when the call came through. The radio on my hip hissed to life. "Ranger 4, this is Dispatch. We’ve got a report of a missing hiker on the Mist Trail, near Vernal Fall. Family says a young man in a red jacket wandered off the path about an hour ago."
My stomach dropped. The Mist Trail was no joke. Steep, rocky, and slick from the mist of the falls, it was one of the most dangerous spots in the park. People slipped there every year, and not all of them walked away. "Copy, Dispatch. Description of the hiker?"
"Male, early twenties, short brown hair, red jacket, blue backpack. Last seen heading toward the fall’s overlook. Family’s waiting at the trailhead."
"Got it. I’m on my way." I waved over Ranger Alex, who was helping a couple with a map nearby. "Alex, we’ve got a missing hiker. Let’s go."
He nodded, his face serious, and grabbed his pack. We started up the trail, moving fast but careful. The path was packed with hikers, some struggling up the stone steps, others snapping photos of the river below. We weaved through them, our boots thudding against the uneven ground. A few people glanced at us, sensing the urgency, but most were too caught up in their own adventures to notice.
The Mist Trail climbed sharply, and the closer we got to Vernal Fall, the louder the water roared. The air grew damp, the rocks underfoot glistening. I scanned the edges of the trail, looking for any sign of a red jacket or blue backpack. My mind raced. An hour was a long time out here. He could be anywhere—lost in the woods, stuck on a ledge, or worse.
Halfway up, near a bend in the trail, a woman in a green hat waved us down. She looked shaken, her hands clutching a water bottle. "Are you looking for that guy in the red jacket?" she asked, her voice trembling.
"Yeah," I said, catching my breath. "Did you see him?"
She nodded, pointing to a rocky outcrop just off the trail, where the ground sloped toward a steep drop. "He was over there, climbing around. I saw him leave the path, said he wanted a better view of the fall. I told him it wasn’t safe, but he just laughed and kept going. I haven’t seen him since."
"How long ago was this?" Alex asked, stepping closer.
"About 45 minutes, maybe less," she said, her eyes darting to the outcrop. "I should’ve done more, followed him or something."
"You warned him," I said, trying to ease her guilt, though I knew it wouldn’t help much. "Stay here in case we need you. We’ll check it out."
We moved toward the outcrop, the roar of the fall now so loud it vibrated in my chest. The trail was busy, but beyond its edges, the terrain turned treacherous—jagged rocks, loose gravel, and a sheer drop to the Merced River below. I cupped my hands and shouted, "Hello? Can you hear me?" The only reply was the crash of water and the faint rustle of wind through the pines.
I edged closer to the drop, my boots slipping slightly on the damp stone. The river churned below, white foam swirling around sharp rocks. My heart pounded as I leaned out, searching for any sign of him. "Alex, you see anything?"
He was scanning the other side of the outcrop, his face tense. "Nothing yet. Let’s keep looking."
We spread out, moving carefully off the trail. The ground was uneven, littered with pine needles and small stones that shifted underfoot. I called out again, louder this time, but the fall’s roar swallowed my voice. Then, near the edge of a cliff, I froze. A scrap of red fabric was caught on a thorny bush, flapping faintly. I crouched and picked it up, my fingers brushing the rough material. It was part of a jacket, bright red, just like the one described.
"Alex, over here!" I held up the fabric, my voice tight.
He jogged over, his eyes widening. "That’s his, isn’t it?"
"Looks like it." I stuffed the fabric in my pocket and radioed Dispatch. "Dispatch, this is Ranger 4. Found a piece of a red jacket off the Mist Trail, near Vernal Fall. Requesting search and rescue now."
"Copy, Ranger 4. SAR team is on the way. ETA 25 minutes."
Twenty-five minutes felt like forever. If he was hurt, or worse, every second mattered. We kept searching, checking behind boulders and along the cliff’s edge. I shouted his description to nearby hikers, asking if they’d seen him. Most shook their heads, but an older man with a walking stick paused.
"I saw a kid in a red jacket," he said, pointing to a steep incline above the outcrop. "He was climbing up there, near those loose rocks. Looked like he was trying to get closer to the fall. I thought he was crazy, but I didn’t say anything."
"When was this?" I asked, my pulse quickening.
"About an hour ago," he said, scratching his beard. "Didn’t see him come back down."
I thanked him and turned to Alex. "We need to check that incline, but we can’t go up without gear. It’s too unstable."
He nodded, his jaw tight. "Let’s wait for SAR. We don’t need two emergencies."
We secured the area, moving hikers back and setting up cones to block the outcrop. The crowd grew curious, whispering among themselves. A teenage girl nearby asked, "Is someone hurt?" I didn’t answer, just shook my head and kept my eyes on the cliff.
The wait was agonizing. The fall’s roar was relentless, and the air felt heavy, like the park itself was watching. I kept picturing that red fabric, torn and caught, and wondered what we’d find. My mind went to dark places—slipped on the rocks, fell into the river, trapped on a ledge. I’d seen accidents here before, but each one hit like it was the first.
When the SAR team arrived, their heavy packs clinked with climbing gear. The team leader, Ben, approached us. "What’s the situation?" he asked, adjusting his helmet.
"Missing hiker, male, early twenties, red jacket," I said, handing him the scrap of fabric. "Last seen climbing near the fall. We found this on a bush by the cliff."
Ben’s face hardened. "We’ll start at the base of the fall and work our way up. If he fell, the river’s the likely spot."
I nodded, but the thought made my chest tight. The Merced River was unforgiving, its current strong enough to pull a grown man under in seconds. Ben and his team set up their ropes, their movements precise despite the chaos around them. They descended over the edge, vanishing into the mist.
We waited, keeping the crowd at a distance. A woman in the group, maybe the one who’d flagged us down, was crying now, her husband comforting her. "He was so young," she said softly. I wanted to say something, but what could I say? We didn’t even know if he was alive.
The minutes dragged. The fall’s roar filled the silence, broken only by the occasional squawk of my radio. I paced, my boots scuffing the dirt. Alex stood nearby, staring at the cliff, his hands clenched. "You think he’s down there?" he asked quietly.
"I hope not," I said, but the words felt hollow.
Finally, Ben’s voice crackled through. "Ranger 4, we found him. He’s in the river, at the base of the fall. No pulse. Looks like he hit the rocks before the water got him."
The words hit like a punch. I swallowed hard. "Copy that. Can you recover him?"
"We’re trying," Ben said. "The current’s strong, and the rocks are slick. It’s gonna take time."
I relayed the news to Alex, who just nodded, his face pale. We stayed put, helping the SAR team manage the crowd as they worked. Hikers kept asking questions, their voices a blur. "What happened?" "Is he okay?" I didn’t answer, just kept my focus on the ropes moving over the edge.
When they finally brought him up, hours later, I saw him for the first time. He was young, his red jacket soaked and torn, his blue backpack still strapped to his shoulders. His body was battered—bruises on his face, one arm twisted at a sickening angle, blood matting his hair. The rocks had done their work before the river claimed him. I felt bile rise in my throat but forced it down. I’d seen death before, but the sight of him, so close to my own age, hit hard.
We covered him with a tarp, shielding him from the crowd’s stares. A hiker nearby whispered, "He was just trying to get a photo, wasn’t he?" The words cut deep. One moment, one step too far, and he was gone.
The SAR team carried him down the trail, a slow, somber procession. Alex and I followed, our steps heavy. The crowd parted for us, their faces a mix of shock and pity. I kept my eyes on the ground, avoiding their gazes. The fall’s roar faded as we descended, but it still echoed in my head.
Back at the station, the paperwork waited—incident reports, witness statements, notifications to the family. I sat at my desk, pen in hand, but couldn’t write. All I could see was that red jacket, that twisted arm, those empty eyes. I kept hearing the woman’s voice: "I should’ve done more." I wondered if I could’ve moved faster, searched harder, done something to change the outcome.
Later that night, I walked back to the trailhead alone. The falls were still there, crashing in the distance, their sound carrying through the dark. The park was stunning, but it was also cruel. It didn’t care about our rules, our plans, our lives. I was here to protect people, to guide them, but sometimes the land was too wild, too vast.
I thought about his family, waiting for a call that would break their world apart. I thought about the hikers who’d seen him climb, who’d carry that memory forever. And I thought about us, the rangers, left to face the questions no one could answer. Why him? Why today? What could we have done?
The river kept flowing, the falls kept roaring, and the park went on, untouched by the life it had taken. I stood there, staring into the shadows, knowing I’d carry this day with me. We’d tried, we’d run, we’d searched, but sometimes, no matter how hard we fought, we couldn’t help. And that truth, more than anything, was what kept me awake long after the falls went quiet.
"The Vanishing Ranger of Chiricahua":
I’ve been a park ranger at Chiricahua National Monument for over a decade, and I thought I knew every inch of this place—its jagged hoodoos, balanced rocks teetering like they might fall any second, and canyons that twist so deep you feel like you’re walking into the earth’s bones. It’s beautiful, but it’s also wild, untamed in a way that makes you respect it. That respect turned to fear the day Paul Fugate, one of our best rangers, disappeared without a trace.
It was January 13, 1980. Paul stopped by my office in the visitor center around 2 p.m., his green uniform pressed, badge glinting under the light. He had his radio clipped to his belt, a small notepad in his pocket, and his service firearm holstered at his hip. Paul was a naturalist through and through, the kind of guy who could name every plant and bird in the park and tell you their stories. He’d been a teacher before this, and you could hear it in the way he talked to visitors, patient and full of facts. “I’m heading out to check the trail to the south ridge,” he said, leaning against the doorframe, his boots scuffing the worn floor. “Shouldn’t take long. If I’m not back by 4:30, you can start closing up.” I glanced up from the stack of reports on my desk and gave him a nod. “Sounds good, Paul. See you in a bit.” He flashed a quick smile and walked out, his footsteps fading down the hall. I didn’t think twice about it. Paul knew these trails better than anyone. He’d hiked them in every season, mapped them in his head. He was the last person I’d worry about.
By 4:30, the visitor center was quiet, just the hum of the heater and the occasional creak of the building. Paul hadn’t come back. I figured he might’ve stopped to check a washed-out section of trail or gotten caught up talking to a hiker. I grabbed my radio and pressed the button. “Paul, you there? Over.” Static crackled back, sharp and empty, like a door slamming shut. I tried again. “Paul, come in. You okay?” More static. My stomach twisted, a small knot of unease. The canyons could mess with radio signals, especially if he was deep in one. I waited another fifteen minutes, pacing the office, glancing at the clock. At 5:00, I called again. Nothing. That knot in my gut tightened. Something was wrong.
I grabbed my jacket and radioed two other rangers, Tom and Ellen, who were finishing up at the maintenance shed. “Paul’s not back from the south ridge trail,” I said. “I’m heading out to look. Meet me at the trailhead.” They didn’t ask questions—just said they’d be there. We met up ten minutes later, our flashlights bobbing in the fading light. The trail started wide, gravel crunching under our boots, but it narrowed fast, winding through rock spires and into a canyon where the walls closed in tight. We called his name, our voices bouncing off the stone. “Paul! You out here?” The echoes came back, mocking us. No footprints, no dropped gear, no sign of him. The air felt heavy, like the park was holding its breath. We searched until it was too dark to see, our flashlight beams slicing through the shadows, catching nothing but rock and scrub. My heart was pounding, not just from the hike but from the growing sense that something was off—way off.
The next morning, we organized a full search. Over a hundred people showed up—park staff, local police, volunteers from town, even some hikers who’d heard the news. Helicopters thumped overhead, their blades chopping the air, stirring up dust that stung my eyes. We brought in tracking dogs, their handlers guiding them along the trail. The dogs sniffed the ground, their noses twitching, but they’d stop and circle, whining like they’d lost the scent. The park was too big, too wild. Canyons branched off in every direction, some so narrow you had to turn sideways to pass. Crevices dropped into blackness, deep enough to swallow a man whole. I kept picturing Paul lying at the bottom of one, his leg broken, calling out where no one could hear. Or worse, not calling out at all.
We split into teams, each taking a section of the park. My group worked the south ridge, checking every side trail, every overhang. The rocks were sharp, slicing at my gloves as I climbed. Every rustle in the brush made me jump, thinking it might be Paul—or something else. “He’s got to be here somewhere,” Tom said, his voice tight as we paused to catch our breath. He was young, barely a year on the job, and his eyes kept darting to the shadows. “He’s too smart to get lost.” Ellen, older and steadier, shook her head. “This place doesn’t care how smart you are,” she said. “You slip, you fall, you’re gone.” I didn’t say anything. I was too busy scanning the ground, hoping for a footprint, a scrap of green fabric, anything. But there was nothing. It was like Paul had stepped off the edge of the world.
Days turned into weeks. The search grew bigger, then smaller as volunteers had to go back to their lives. The helicopters stopped coming. The dogs went home. We kept looking, though, us rangers, because Paul was one of ours. I’d walk the trails alone sometimes, calling his name until my throat was raw. The park started to feel different, like it was watching me. Shadows seemed to move just out of sight, and every snap of a twig made my hand twitch toward my radio. I’d tell myself it was just a coyote or a gust of wind, but the feeling wouldn’t shake.
About a month later, I drove to Paul’s house to check on Dody, his wife. Their place was small, tucked at the edge of town, with a yard full of wildflowers Paul used to tend. Dody opened the door, her face pale, eyes red like she hadn’t slept in weeks. “Any news?” she asked before I could say hello. I shook my head, feeling like I’d failed her. “We’re still looking, Dody. Every day.” She nodded, her lips tight, and invited me in. We sat at her kitchen table, coffee cups steaming between us, untouched. “Paul would never just leave like that,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “He loved this park. Loved me. We were planning a trip, you know? After he retired. He wanted to see Yellowstone.” She looked at me, her eyes searching. “Something happened to him out there. I know it.” I wanted to argue, to say maybe he’d just gotten lost, but the words stuck in my throat. “We’ll keep looking,” I said again, uselessly. She nodded, staring at the table, and I left feeling heavier than when I’d arrived.
Back at the park, rumors started to spread. The monument was close to the Mexican border, and some rangers whispered about drug smugglers using the trails at night. “Maybe Paul saw something he wasn’t supposed to,” Tom said one evening in the break room, his voice low like he didn’t want the walls to hear. “He had his gun, but that doesn’t mean much if he was outnumbered.” Ellen frowned, stirring her coffee. “Or maybe he just fell,” she said. “There’s a hundred places out there a man could disappear.” I didn’t like either idea. The thought of Paul running into trouble—someone making sure he’d never talk—made my skin crawl. But the idea of him lying broken at the bottom of a canyon wasn’t much better. Then there was the other theory, the one nobody wanted to say out loud: maybe Paul had walked away on purpose. Started a new life somewhere. It didn’t fit, though. He’d been happy, settled, talking about his future with Dody. Why would he leave everything behind?
The search dragged on for months. We checked every trail, every cave, every dry wash. Divers even searched a few of the deeper springs, their lights glinting in the murky water. Nothing. Not a button from his uniform, not a scratch on a rock. The park was keeping him, and it wasn’t telling us where. I started to hate those canyons, the way they loomed over me, silent and smug. Every patrol felt like walking into a trap. I’d hear a rustle and spin around, half-expecting to see Paul standing there, or worse, someone else. The other rangers felt it too. Tom started carrying an extra knife, and Ellen stopped hiking alone. “This place is different now,” she told me once, her voice quiet. “Like it’s hiding something.”
Years passed, but the case never closed. In 2018, the park service upped the reward to $60,000 for any information about Paul. A few leads trickled in. Someone found bones in a remote canyon, and my heart jumped, thinking we’d finally found him. But the tests came back negative—not Paul. Another person swore they’d seen a man matching his description in a town hundreds of miles away, years ago. We followed it up, but it led nowhere, just another dead end. The mystery hung over the park like a shadow, dark and heavy.
Now, when we train new rangers, we tell them about Paul. It’s part of the job, a story we pass down like a warning. “Be careful out there,” we say, pointing to the canyons. “This place can be beautiful, but it can also be deadly.” I still walk the trails, but I’m not the same. Every step, I’m looking over my shoulder, wondering if Paul’s out there, hidden in some crevice we missed, or if someone made sure he’d never be found. Did he slip into a chasm, his body wedged where no one could reach? Did he cross paths with the wrong person, someone who knew those trails as well as he did? Or did he just… vanish, swallowed by the vastness of this place? I don’t know. All I know is we tried everything, and it wasn’t enough. The park keeps its secrets, and Paul’s one of them.
"Portage":
I stood on the edge of Turnagain Arm, my boots sinking slightly into the soft ground, watching Adeana fiddle with the straps on her backpack. We’d been married two weeks, and this trip to the mudflats near Portage, Alaska, felt like our first real adventure as husband and wife. The air smelled of salt and earth, and the flats stretched out before us, a wide, gray expanse that looked solid, like a beach after a storm. We’d come to try gold dredging, chasing stories of flecks of gold hidden in the silt. Adeana turned to me, her brown hair tied back, her eyes bright with excitement. “Jay, you think we’ll find enough to buy that cabin?” she asked, her voice teasing.
I grinned, hauling the dredge off the back of our four-wheeler. “Maybe just enough for a porch,” I said. “But we’ve gotta start somewhere.” She laughed, the sound light and warm, and helped me drag the equipment toward a spot we’d picked out, about a hundred yards from the water’s edge. The four-wheeler’s tires crunched over the ground, and I kept an eye on the tide line in the distance. I’d read about Turnagain Arm, how the tides here could rush in faster than a man could run, but the water looked far off, and we had time. Or so I thought.
We set up the dredge, a heavy, clunky machine with a hose and a pump to suck up mud and sift it for gold. Adeana knelt beside it, her hands already smudged with gray silt. “This thing looks like it’s from the Stone Age,” she said, tugging at the hose. “You sure it works?”
“Guy at the shop swore by it,” I said, checking the fuel in the pump. “Just don’t let it suck up your boots.” She stuck out her tongue, and we got to work, the dredge humming as it pulled up wet clumps of earth. The mud was cold, sticking to our gloves, and I kept glancing at the water, still a safe distance away. “Keep an eye out, okay?” I said. “Tide’s sneaky here.”
“Got it, boss,” Adeana said, mock-saluting. She was in her element, digging into the mud, her enthusiasm pulling me along. For a while, it felt perfect—us, the open flats, the dream of finding something valuable together.
Then the four-wheeler got stuck. I’d driven it a little closer to reposition the dredge, but when I hit the throttle to move it back, the tires spun, sinking deeper into the mud. “Come on,” I muttered, revving the engine. The wheels whined, spitting mud, but didn’t budge. Adeana hopped off, her boots squelching. “Jay, it’s really stuck,” she said, pushing against the handlebars. “This mud’s like cement.”
I climbed off, my stomach tightening. The ground felt different now, softer, like it was waiting to grab us. I pushed with her, my boots sinking an inch with every step. “We’ll leave it,” I said, wiping sweat from my forehead. “Let’s grab the gear and head back to solid ground.” I turned to pick up the dredge, but Adeana’s voice stopped me cold.
“Jay, I can’t move my foot.” She was standing a few feet away, one leg buried to the ankle. Her face was pale, her eyes wide. “It’s stuck. Like, really stuck.”
I dropped the hose and ran to her, my heart thudding. “Okay, don’t panic,” I said, kneeling beside her. The mud around her boot was smooth and wet, but when I tried to dig with my hands, it was like scooping wet concrete. It clung to my fingers, heavy and cold. “Pull,” I said, gripping her leg. She tugged, her face twisting with effort, but her foot didn’t move.
“It’s not coming out,” she said, her voice sharp with fear. “Jay, it’s tight, like it’s squeezing me.” She yanked harder, her other foot sinking a little as she shifted her weight. I grabbed a shovel from the four-wheeler, my hands shaking, and started digging around her leg. The mud was stubborn, filling back in almost as fast as I scooped it out.
“Keep trying to wiggle it,” I said, my voice tighter than I wanted. I glanced at the water. It was closer now, maybe seventy yards, a gray line creeping toward us. My chest felt like it was being squeezed. “I’m gonna get you out,” I said, more to convince myself than her.
Adeana forced a small smile, but her eyes kept darting to the tide. “Hurry, okay? This feels wrong.” Her voice was soft, almost a whisper. I dug faster, the shovel scraping against the mud, but it wasn’t enough. The ground seemed to tighten around her, pulling her deeper. Her other foot was starting to sink now, the mud creeping up to her shins.
I dropped the shovel and ran to the dredge, my boots slipping. “I’m gonna try the hose,” I said, dragging it over. The machine was still running, its motor loud in my ears. I aimed the suction hose at the mud around her leg, hoping it could pull enough away to free her. The dredge groaned, sucking up clumps of silt, but the mud held tight, like it was alive and refusing to let go.
“Jay, the water’s getting closer,” Adeana said, her voice shaking. I looked up. The tide was maybe fifty yards away now, moving faster, a relentless wall of gray. Her legs were stuck to the knees, and she was shivering, her hands clutching my arm. “I’m scared, Jay. It’s so cold.”
“Don’t look at the water,” I said, my throat burning. “Look at me. I’m getting you out.” I worked the dredge, my hands numb from the cold mud, but it wasn’t enough. The tide was closing in, forty yards now, the water lapping at the edges of the flats. I grabbed the radio from the four-wheeler, my fingers fumbling with the buttons. “Mayday, mayday!” I shouted. “We’re on Turnagain Arm, near Portage. My wife’s stuck in the mud. The tide’s coming in. We need help now!”
The voice on the other end was calm, maddeningly calm. “Sir, we’ve got your location. Troopers and paramedics are on the way. ETA fifteen to twenty minutes.”
“Fifteen minutes?” I yelled, my voice cracking. “The water’s almost here!” I dropped the radio and went back to the dredge, my hands slipping on the hose. The water was at thirty yards, swirling around the edges of the mud. Adeana’s breathing was fast, her face white. “Jay, I can’t feel my feet,” she said, her teeth chattering. “It’s too cold.”
“Hold on,” I said, my voice breaking. “Talk to me, Adeana. Tell me about that cabin we’re gonna build.” I was desperate to keep her focused, to keep myself from falling apart.
She swallowed hard, her eyes locked on mine. “Big porch,” she said, her voice trembling. “For sunsets. A garden out back. Room for a dog… maybe two.” She tried to smile, but the water was at her feet now, cold and gray, creeping up her legs. “Jay, it’s rising fast.”
I heard shouts in the distance. Two figures were sprinting toward us, their gear bouncing. A man and a woman, one in a trooper’s uniform, the other with a paramedic’s bag. “We’re here!” the man called, his voice cutting through the hum of the dredge. He was tall, his radio crackling as he dropped beside me. “I’m Trooper Opalka. We’re gonna get you out, ma’am.”
“Hurry!” I shouted, my hands raw from working the hose. The water was at Adeana’s thighs now, moving faster, like it was alive. The paramedic, a woman with short hair, waded in, tying a rope around Adeana’s waist. “We’ve got you,” she said, her voice steady, but I saw her glance at the water, her eyes tight with worry.
Opalka dug with his hands, the mud sticking to his gloves. “This stuff’s like concrete,” he muttered, scooping frantically. The paramedic pulled on the rope, but Adeana didn’t budge. “It’s not working,” I said, my voice hoarse. The water was at her waist, cold and relentless. Adeana was shaking, her lips blue. “Jay, I can’t move,” she whispered. “I’m so cold.”
“Pull harder!” I shouted, grabbing the rope with the paramedic. We yanked, but the mud held tight, like it was swallowing her. The water climbed to her chest, and Adeana tilted her head back, gasping to keep her face above it. “Jay,” she said, her voice barely audible. “I love you.”
The tide surged, covering her shoulders. I screamed, grabbing her hands, her fingers icy and slipping in mine. “Adeana, hold on!” I yelled, pulling with everything I had. Opalka grabbed my arm, his face grim. “We can’t stay here,” he said, his voice low. “The water’s too high. It’ll take us all.”
“No!” I fought him, my legs buckling as the water reached Adeana’s chin. Her eyes were wide, full of fear, locked on mine. “Jay,” she whispered, and then the water closed over her face. I lunged forward, but Opalka and the paramedic dragged me back, the tide rushing in, covering her completely.
I collapsed on higher ground, my chest heaving, staring at the water where she’d been. The rescuers stayed, their faces pale, wading in the cold, waiting for the tide to go out. Hours later, they found her, still trapped in the mud, her body still, her eyes closed. I fell to my knees, the world blurring, the sound of the waves deafening.
They tried. The troopers, the paramedics—they did everything they could. But the mud and the tide were stronger. I keep replaying it, the way the flats looked so harmless, the way Adeana’s voice sounded when she said she was scared. I see her face every night, wondering if I could’ve dug faster, called sooner. Those flats took her from me, and no one could stop it.
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