Left for Wild - Harloe Rae

Arrested. Wrongfully accused. Sentenced to ten years.

But the steel bars release me early.

After serving half of my time for a crime I didn’t commit, they grant me parole—with a very short leash. My second chance at freedom begins now, and I won’t waste it. I should’ve been paying more attention.

Ambushed. Captured. Stranded.

When I wake in the depths of a snowy forest, all seems lost. I’ve been left alone in the wilderness with zero means of escape. Until someone rouses beside me.

I recognize Blakely Cross instantly, yet she’s barely more than a stranger. Now she’s stuck with me in the worst possible place, as collateral damage.

Blakely blames me, and rightfully so. This entire situation is my fault. Our destinies are inadvertently twisted together by forces far larger than us. Whether she hates me or not, we need each other to stay alive.

Cope. Adapt. Persevere.

They tossed us out to be buried, but underestimated our determination. The bond we’re building will overcome the harshest conditions.

And we’re not willing to surrender.

I’d never been in a situation where survival was questioned. My life had been safe and predictable. One flicker of a moment changed all of that. Everything I’d previously relied on went up in smoke, but he was there to manage the flames.

—Blakely Cross

Survival tip #1: Weakness is only created when given the opportunity to grow.

An all too familiar buzz precedes the fluorescent flash of lights, alerting me that the morning rounds are starting soon. I’m already wide awake. Catching a decent night’s sleep in the pen still manages to elude me.

Rows of warped bars flash in and out of my vision against the pitted ceiling. The resounding bang of metal slamming shut vibrates my bunk, rusty cogs grinding and grating on what little sanity hasn’t been mutilated. Approaching footsteps haunt my nightmares, offering solace on one side and consequence on the other. Punishment in this place is not an option to explore. That’s a damn harsh lesson I’ve come to learn.

I’ve been left to rot for more than eleven hundred days. There are thousands left to go on my bullshit sentence. This cell is bound to be the end of me, death in a cage of reinforced steel and stained concrete. The damn draft that doesn’t quit whistling at all hours of the day. Water droplets ping off every surface, scattering my thoughts faster than a torrential downpour. A discolored window offering a distorted view of what’s been stolen from me.

“Get your asses up, inmates!” The guard’s bellow booms along the narrow hallway, seeping into every crevice across this block.

His warning signals thirty minutes until we’re allowed to roam free from the confinement of our individual cages. A ferocious hum pulses in my veins at the reminder. My escape beyond these four walls is never long enough. Nothing is given without paying a steep price. A few random hours to wander around the commons. Rushed meals in the mess hall. Strictly monitored afternoons in the yard. Precious moments in the gym and rec hall, if earned. The occasional meeting with my lawyer. All of it is too damn rushed and cramped.

After three years, I should be used to the punishing routine. But what’s worse than being locked up in prison and watching life circle the drain? Not committing the damn crime that tossed me in here. That didn’t matter when an entire fleet of underground forces was fighting against me. The gavel pounded down, and my charges were officially hammered into record.

They stamped my one-way ticket without hesitation or hearing me out. It almost seems like a bad dream, even all these months later. Every soul trapped inside this version of hell will shout their innocence if given the chance. No one wants to willingly admit their wrongdoings, especially when it puts a bigger target on their back.

In my case, the fault lies heavily on my inability to put the fucking puzzle together. All I’m guilty of is getting involved with the underbelly of society, albeit unknowingly. I was a pawn in their game of corruption. Getting on their payroll was a grave mistake that cost me more than any dirty amount dumped into my bank account. The men who framed me were good at their job. Too good, hence my extended stay at Streebston Correctional Facility.

The slow clip of boots on concrete pauses in front of my cell. “You better be awake, Rane.”

I straighten, hauling myself from the sorry excuse of a mattress. “No other way to be.”

“Fix your damn cot before I’m

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