He has his knife with him, but I realize he didn’t bring the lighter. I eye the pack, just out of my reach. The lighter’s in the pack.
I don’t see him, but I hear the babbling water. I know he’s down there…catching fish with his bare hands—supposedly. Is he messing with me? People can’t do that.
But I know he thinks I’m trapped. The leash under the boulder is effective—or would be if I were a four-legged pet.
Luckily I’m a human woman with opposable thumbs.
I rip a branch from a young tree and use it to snag the pack. Soon enough, I have the lighter. I hold the flame under the rope, grateful the breeze is flowing away from the stream where he’s down fishing, so that he can’t smell it so easily.
Or maybe he can smell it. He basically has superpowers out here. Still, I have to try.
He’s master of the forest, that’s for sure, but it’s his superpowers over me that really have me worried. The dark pull of belonging to him tugs at my belly. The sensation of being at his mercy is as intoxicating as any drug.
The rope blackens and fries.
I use my teeth to rip it the rest of the way, spitting out the charred, bitter threads.
Freedom.
I can do this. I’m resourceful. I’ve survived in all kinds of dangerous places. If an eight-year-old boy can handle this wilderness, I sure as hell can.
I pocket the lighter and nab my phone, which is still in two parts in the baggies.
Quiet as a mouse, I creep off the other way—the direction from which we came. We’ve been heading pretty steadily north and northwest. I’ll go south and southeast. I’ll keep going until I get a signal.
Guilt twists my belly as I move through the trees. I’m surprised by how bad I feel, leaving the man who’s depriving me of my freedom.
But then, beneath the captive thing we have going, there’s a friendship. Maybe even something deeper than that.
I care about him. I don’t want him to be lonely.
But taking a woman captive isn’t the answer.
I move at a steady pace. I make good time. I’m not a complete idiot about moving with stealth; I’ve been in contested areas. Hot zones. I avoid sticks that might crack. Piles of leaves. I veer off the path and break random branches to fool him. Or at least try.
I come to a fork and take the wrong direction, thinking to circle back. Hopefully he won’t expect it.
I go for maybe twenty minutes. Up ahead, I see a thicket of pine trees. I’m thinking I could get into there and climb one. He won’t expect that, either. People don’t look up. I’m really doing it. Part of me wonders whether it’s a little foolish, but I have water, fire, and enough clothes to keep warm. A person can go two months without food. I grab a pine frond and rub the needles between my fingers, releasing the pungent juices. Like perfume to cover my scent. I rub it on my pulse points.
I step it up. I crunch over some leaves, and then I crunch over something that gives weirdly. I think I’ve stepped into a hole. Until I feel the rush of tickles on my ankle.
Up my pant leg.
And then the stinging, like needles, jabbing bone-deep.
My leg is covered with black wasps.
I scream.
Mud wasps are swarming my pants. I shake my leg, screaming, flailing, but keep stinging me through my pants, my jacket.
With wild motions, I brush them from my face and hair, whirling, trying to get them off of me. Then I just start to run, waving my arms.
My leg feels like it’s on fire. I feel pricks on my back, my arms.
I run like crazy, batting them from my face. They’re in my hair, everywhere.
I crash through the forest. I trip and fall. I bound up and keep going.