When the forest finally fell silent, I counted to two hundred before I dared move. Then I dragged myself through the pine needles toward the small moan, my broken arm screaming with every inch. Owen lay curled against a fallen log, scraped and crying without sound. I pulled him against my chest and covered his mouth gently with my hand. “Grandma,” he whispered, “Mommy let go.” My heart shattered.

Then a rock clattered down the slope above us. A flashlight beam swept across the trees, slow and searching. Footsteps crunched closer, and a woman’s voice called softly, “Daniel, I think I see her jacket.” I pressed Owen’s face into my coat and held my breath as the light crept toward us, one tree at a time, and stopped inches from my hand.