Now I am returning to “normalcy” like it never happened. Like it’s easy to make friends. Easy to forget how I lived every minute of the past eighteen months in fear that they would find us.
That he would find me.
Panting, I catch my father’s gaze. He stands motionless, watching me, waiting for it to pass.
I grit my teeth to block the rest from coming.
Because the thing is, I’m not afraid of remembering Tunis.
It isn’t hiding in that safe house, barely forty-eight hours ago, that chills my bones and fills me with panic—it is remembering what happened before Tunis.
It is fear that if I remember any of it, I will relive all of it.
Catching the wind, the light bulb sways and flickers off. Then it rocks back into place and lights up again, illuminating my father’s face. He’s always been so good at concealing his emotions. I fluctuate between despising him for it and envying him.
He resumes skimming the hard wax off the ski edges, but his eyes remain on mine.
“Yes, Dad, I saw his face,” I say quietly.
“Your mother asked me to check with you, make sure you understand he’s gone. That you understand what this means.”
Nodding, I stand and set the glossy ski boot upright. “It means I can go out for mudslides.”
CHAPTER 6
In the late afternoon light, beneath an awning of evergreen needles, the trail is awash in a silky mist.
I find the entrance marked by a wooden post adjacent to a tan clapboard house where pockets of brambles and quaking aspens merge into spindly pines and wild birch trees.
According to the map my father spread out on the kitchen counter, this indiscernible path of dirt dividing dense foliage is a shortcut to Charlotte’s.
Although I’m running three hundred meters parallel to the road, a vast wilderness seems to separate me from civilization.
Out of habit, I look behind me as I run deeper into the forest. No one is there, but I’m not used to being alone, to having this freedom. I inhale deeply. Waterford smells of autumn—pine needles, burning leaves, and damp forest.
Storm clouds hover above the thick canopy of intertwining pine branches. It starts to drizzle—I gather my hair under the hood of my new windbreaker.
Quickening my pace, I curve around a bend in the trail, jump over a gnarly tree root, and skid to a halt.
Stifling a cry, I grasp a pine bough to keep my balance. Seriously?
My father didn’t warn me? Wolves in the Carpathians. Lions in the Serengeti. He forgot grizzlies in Montana.
Instinctively, I run my hand over the waistband of my leggings—but I know my FN 5-7 is at home, tucked beneath my pillow where my parents insist I keep it.
The bear’s backside is three feet wide; its head is the size of a boulder. Sniffing and grunting, it is so close I can see clumps of mud caked into its russet fur.
With an enormous paw, the bear whacks a tree limb, snapping it in half.
Although rain falls steadily, pattering onto the dirt in an acoustic rhythm, I hear something in the distance, getting closer.
I listen harder, gauging direction. I glance left, then right.
Heavy breathing. Fast. Too fast. Erratic. Multiple. Unsynchronized.
Beside me, a thicket of trees stirs. Two furry brown shapes tumble out of the dense forest undergrowth and scamper onto the path, loping toward the grizzly.
At this moment, three facts about North American grizzly bears come to mind: they are a subspecies of Siberian brown bear; they can run fifteen meters in one second; a grizzly with two cubs is as dangerous as a pack of hyenas.
I need to move. Immediately.
I start backing away. Spattering raindrops muffle the sound of my footsteps. Each step creates more distance between me and the grizzly. Two meters. Three.
Crack! I snap a branch.
The grizzly whips her head around. Her amber eyes meet mine. A plume of air rises from her nose.
I take another step back.
Wrong move.
She rears onto her hind legs. A low, threatening snarl tears from her mouth.
Thud! Landing on all four legs, she leaps forward.
Rapidly, she narrows the distance between us.
Bending my knees, I extend one arm toward the ground. My fingers fumble along the mud and pebbles until they clasp a jagged stone, barely the size of my palm. If I can somehow … hit her in the eye …
But she is charging me at full speed, ferocious growls ripping from her throat.
I try to recall my father teaching me how to fend off a grizzly attack, any method I can use to