"See what?" Evan knelt carefully, scooping water with his good hand. He hadn't seen anything strange. Just water.
"The river! It answered! It—it moved! Like it was saying 'you're welcome!'"
Evan looked at the water. It looked completely normal now. "Kid, I think you're dehydrated. Rivers don't talk."
"But it DID! I know it did!" Anaya stood up, looking at him with absolute certainty. "Papa, I felt it! It heard me and it answered!"
Evan studied her face. She wasn't joking. Wasn't making it up. She genuinely believed the river had responded. So not to disappoint her he said,"Anaya, remember how you said you were waiting to discover your special ability? Maybe this is it. Maybe you can... I don't know, communicate with nature or something."
"Really?" Her face lit up. "You think so?"
"I mean, I don't know much about elf abilities. But Mom mentioned some elves can sense things in the natural world that humans can't. Maybe you're developing that gift."
"But Mama never said elves could talk to rivers. Or trees. Or—" She paused. "Can I try something?"
"Sure, little light. Try whatever you want."
Anaya turned back to the river, kneeling at the edge again. Her expression was serious, concentrated.
"River," she said clearly. "My Papa is hurt. He got shot trying to protect me. Can you—can you take care of him? When he's in danger? Please?"
They both waited.
The water flowed normally. No strange ripples. No upstream waves. No acknowledgment.
Nothing.
Anaya's face fell. "It's not answering."
"Maybe it already helped by being here when we were thirsty," Evan suggested. "That's a kind of care, right?"
"Maybe." But she sounded uncertain now. Disappointed.
"Come on, little light." Evan stood, offering his good hand. "I think you're just hungry and the lack of food is making you see things. Gas is attacking your head."
"Papa, that's not how hunger works."
"Sure it is. I'm a medical expert. Trust me."
"You're NOT a medical expert!"
"I successfully cauterized my own gunshot wound. That counts."
"That counts as CRAZY, not expert!"
Despite everything, they were both smiling.
They walked away from the stream, continuing southwest.
But Anaya kept glancing back at the water, that look of wonder still in her eyes.
As they walked through the forest, Anaya began doing something strange.
She'd touch trees as they passed. Press her small hand against the bark and whisper: "Please protect my Papa. Please help him when he's in danger."
She'd pick up interesting stones and hold them to her chest, closing her eyes. "Please watch over Papa. Keep him safe."
She'd trail her fingers through patches of flowers, speaking softly to each one: "Please give Papa strength. He's hurt and tired but he's trying so hard."
She'd pause at fallen leaves, gathering them gently. "Please make a path for Papa. Show him the way home."
Nothing responded.
The trees stood silent and still. The stones remained cold and lifeless in her hands. The flowers swayed only with the wind. The leaves scattered only where the breeze took them.
But she kept trying.
"Anaya," Evan said after the tenth time she stopped to whisper to a patch of moss. "Baby, I don't think they're listening."
"But they might be!" She looked up at him with desperate hope. "Maybe they just don't know how to answer. Maybe they're helping in ways we can't see. Please don't tell me to stop."
"I'm not telling you to stop. I just—" He paused. How could he explain that he didn't want her to be disappointed? That watching her pour her heart out to unresponsive nature was breaking something inside him?
"Let me do this," she said quietly. "Even if nothing answers. Even if I'm wrong. Let me try."
"Okay, kid. You can try."
So she did.
Every tree they passed, she touched. Every stone that caught her eye, she held. Every flower, every leaf, every blade of grass—she whispered to them all.
Asking them to protect him. To help him. To keep him safe.
And nothing answered.
But she didn't stop.
By midday, Evan's fever was worse. He could feel it—the heat radiating from his body, the way his thoughts were getting fuzzy at the edges. Infection setting in, probably. The cauterization had sealed the wounds but hadn't exactly been sterile.
He needed antibiotics. Rest. Medical care.
He had none of those things.
"Papa, you're walking funny," Anaya observed.
"I'm walking fine."
"You're tilting to the right. Like the leaning tower of... of that place with the tower."
"Pisa."
"Yes! That!" She moved to his right side, trying to support him. "Let me help."
"I'm too heavy for you."
"I'm very strong! Feel my muscles!" She flexed her tiny arm. "See? Strong like a bear!"
"More like strong like a really determined mouse."
"Mice are VERY strong! They can lift things twenty times their weight!"
"Did you just make that up?"
"Maybe. But it SOUNDS true." She pressed against his side, taking as much of his weight as her small frame could. "Come on, Papa. We can do this together. You and me."
Together.
Evan let her help, even though she couldn't really support much of his weight. But having her there, her small body warm against his side, her determination radiating like heat—it helped in ways that had nothing to do with physical support.
They walked.
And Anaya continued her ritual.
Touching trees. Holding stones. Whispering to flowers and leaves and every living thing they passed.
"Please help Papa."
"Please keep him safe."
"Please give him strength."
Over and over and over.
And the forest remained silent.
But she didn't stop asking.
Because hope—even hope that seemed foolish, that seemed destined for disappointment—was better than giving up.
And if nothing else, Evan thought as he watched her press her small hand against yet another tree trunk, she was the most stubborn, determined, impossible child he'd ever met.
Even if the forest never answered her prayers.
Even if they were truly alone out here.
They had each other.
And for now, that was enough.
"Papa?" Anaya looked up at him as they walked. "Do you think we'll make it?"
Evan looked at the sun, judging its position. Maybe seven hours until sunset. Seven hours to find the barrier.
His shoulder throbbed. His fever climbed. His legs felt like lead.
But Anaya was looking at him with those huge amber eyes, trusting him completely.
"Yeah, baby," he said. "We'll make it."
He had to believe that.
Had to.
Because the alternative was unthinkable.
They walked on through the forest, leaving behind a trail of Anaya's whispered prayers and Evan's determination.
Heading toward a barrier they couldn't see.
Toward a home they weren't sure they'd reach.
But moving forward anyway.
Morrison's Side - Following the Trail
"Sir, we've got blood here!" Private George called out, kneeling beside a dark stain on a fallen log. "Fresh. Maybe thirty minutes old."
Morrison moved through the forest with the efficiency of a predator, his eyes scanning every inch of ground, every broken branch, every disturbed leaf. Behind him, four of his best trackers spread out in formation, searching.
"Direction?" Morrison demanded.
"Southwest." George stood, pointing. "Trail's strong here. He's losing blood fast. We should catch up within the hour."
Morrison felt satisfaction settle cold in his chest. Cross was wounded, slowing down, leaving a trail a child could follow. It was only a matter of time.
They moved quickly, following the blood spatters. Every fifty yards, another sign—blood on bark, on leaves, on stones. Cross was trying to hide it, trying to wipe it away, but there was too much. The wound was bad.
"Sir!" Another soldier—Steve—appeared from the left flank. "Trail gets stronger about twenty yards ahead. Looks like he stopped, probably tried to treat the wound. There's—" He paused, his face going pale. "There's evidence of cauterization. Burn marks. May be he heated a blade and—"
"He sealed it." Morrison's jaw clenched. Of course Cross would do something that insane. That desperate. "When?"
"Maybe two hours ago, based on the condition of the site."
Two hours. Which meant the blood trail would end soon. Cross had stopped the bleeding.
Smart. Brutal. Effective.
Just like Morrison had taught him.
They pressed on, following the trail. But as Steve predicted, about a quarter mile further, the blood stopped.
Just... stopped.
No more spatters. No more smears. Nothing.
Morrison stood at the spot where the last blood drop marked the ground, his hands clenched into fists. "Fan out. Search for tracks. Broken branches. Disturbed undergrowth. Anything."
The team spread out in a grid pattern, searching methodically.
But the forest had swallowed Cross and the girl completely.
"Sir," George called after twenty minutes. "I've got nothing. No tracks, no trail markers, nothing. It's like they vanished."
"They didn't vanish," Morrison snapped. "They're on foot. They're here. Keep searching."
But as the minutes ticked by, as his team combed the area with increasing desperation, Morrison felt his certainty begin to crack.
Cross had done it. Somehow, despite being wounded, despite dragging a child through the wilderness, despite everything—he'd disappeared.
"Damn you, Cross," Morrison whispered to the empty forest. "Damn you."
Evan and Anaya - Hours Later
They'd been walking for what felt like forever.
The sun had climbed to its peak and begun its descent. Evan's internal clock put it around mid-afternoon, maybe 3 or 4 PM. Which meant they had maybe four hours until sunset.
Four hours to find a barrier he still wasn't sure they were even heading toward.
His shoulder was agony. The cauterized wounds throbbed with each step, each heartbeat. The fever made everything feel distant and fuzzy, like he was walking through a dream. Or a nightmare. Hard to tell which.
Beside him, Anaya stumbled.
"Papa, I'm hungry."
"I know, baby."
"Like, really hungry. My tummy hurts."
Evan stopped, leaning against a tree for support. She hadn't eaten dinner last night—too scared to leave him there and cross barrier. Hadn't eaten breakfast this morning—they'd been running for their lives. Now it was mid-afternoon and she'd had nothing but water from the stream.
She was starving.
"Let me check my pockets," he said, patting himself down with his good hand. "Maybe I grabbed—"