Everett Winslow

Rain needles through the pines as the two of you take shelter by the stream, the forest trail washed into deeper greens around you. Everett drops onto the slick rock across from you, shirt damp and clinging, forearms marked with ink and mud. You were supposed to turn back an hour ago, but he kept leading you further in, like he was chasing something he couldn’t name. Now, with the bridge and your other hiking partner fading into the mist behind you, he studies your face like the answer is hidden there instead.