Precious - Roe Horvat

One

Travis

Looking up at the darkened sky, Travis winced. His neck made a loud popping sound. His feet ached, and his shirt was damp with sweat underneath the waterproof jacket he wore. The rain had stopped, finally, but heavy gray clouds still hung above the forest, obscuring the view of Fool’s Mountain. The torrential rain had caused havoc in the lower parts of the National Park, and the way to Birdsview was flooded. However, Sheriff Callaghan would be glad to hear that the road winding along the slopes up to Fool’s Mountain Station was clear. Travis had visited both bridges on the road, and they were intact. He would call the sheriff as soon as he was closer to the park border and his chalet. Here, deep in the forest, he had no phone service.

Pants damp and boots caked with mud, Travis stomped along the gravel path back to his Jeep. What was that? A flash of color in the thick vegetation. He paused. It was a backpack, the red shining brightly against the dark green of the forest. He strode closer and jumped over the ditch that ran along the road. The contents lay scattered under the blueberry bushes—a packed sleeping bag, a flashlight, two empty water bottles, rumpled clothes, a pair of hiking boots, a towel, packs of dry food, a few cans, and a big container of protein powder. He would have grumbled about weekend hikers leaving trash behind, but this looked different. The supplies were mostly intact, just in disorder and wet from the recent rain. Apprehensive, Travis walked around in a wide circle, farther away from the abandoned camping gear, until he found himself back by Shatter River.

On the sandy riverbank, in a hollow between the exposed gnarled roots of the surrounding pines, lay a body. The boy was naked from the waist down, limp hands covering his groin. He was curled on his side, and the chilly water lapped at his feet. He seemed to be in his late teens or early twenties maybe, smallish and slender. His wet, almost black hair clung to his forehead and temples. He wore a light gray Henley, which was drenched and covered with dark stains from mud and moss. His fingers were scraped, nails dirty as if he’d dug into the ground with bare hands. Despite the grime covering him, the beauty of the stranger shone in an obvious way, disturbing in its stillness, and Travis cringed in horror.

He crouched down by the unconscious boy and checked the basics. Breathing fine, pulse steady and strong, his bronze skin chilly, but otherwise, he seemed healthy. His lips were pale, though, almost blue from the damp cold. Touching the half-naked boy without his permission felt all kinds of wrong, but Travis had to check for blood or bruising. He found some wounds on the young man’s feet, but their depth was hard to examine. The skin was macerated, almost white, after being in the water for too long. Travis took off his fleece jacket and covered the boy with it.

What to do now? Should he call the rangers? Sheriff Callaghan? With the flooding in Birdsview and the lower areas of the park, both Blake Callaghan and the rangers were up to their ears in emergencies. And they would need a helicopter to get here. Travis’s chalet was only thirty minutes away, the road intact. Checking his phone and remembering he had no signal made Travis’s decision easy.

He’d take the young man to the chalet and call Blake from there. And Doctor Jenkins.

The boy reacted subtly to Travis’s touches, sighing and squirming, but didn’t open his eyes. Exhaustion, hypothermia. The weather wasn’t that cold, definitely above sixty degrees, but the boy lay half-naked, his feet in the river and his shirt soaked. Yeah, hypothermia.

“You’re safe. Let’s get you somewhere warm.”

He got no answer aside from a soft whimper.

“Just a minute. I’m going to get you out of here.”

Travis carried him to his Jeep. After half a mile, he had to sit down on a fallen tree trunk and catch his breath.

What the hell was the boy doing here alone? He wouldn’t be the first hiker who’d underestimated Fool’s Mountain. The park’s highest peak got its name for that very reason. But how had he ended up collapsed half-naked in Shatter River, fifty feet away from his sleeping bag and food? Had a flash flood swept him up when he washed? Although the water didn’t reach the gravel road up here, the levels

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