Twenty years ago, I found a little boy sobbing under a tree in a lightning storm and got him to safety. Yesterday, during a snowstorm, a tall man knocked on my door, said my name, and handed me a thick envelope, then asked if I was ready to tell the truth.
I used to live in the mountains.
Not literally. But close.
Every weekend.
Every vacation day. Every long Friday.
Boots by the door. Trail maps on the fridge.
Dirt in my car.
The mountains made me feel brave.
Then one storm changed everything.
Twenty years ago, I was hiking alone on a ridge.
My name is Claire.
Back then, my knees didn’t complain.
The sky was blue.
Then it flipped.
Wind hit like a slap.
Branches snapped.
Thunder rolled in fast and low.
I muttered, “Nope.”
I turned toward my valley camp.
Rain came hard. Sideways. Cold.
Lightning flashed so close my teeth buzzed.
I ran.
And then I heard it.
A sound that didn’t belong.
A sob.
Small.
Quiet. Human.
I stopped.
“Hello?” I yelled.
Another sob.
I pushed through wet brush.
And there he was.
A little boy. Maybe nine.
Curled under a pine like he was trying to disappear.
Shaking.
Soaked. Eyes huge.
Not just scared.
Terrified.
I crouched slow. Hands up.
“Hey,” I said.
“It’s okay. I’m here.”
He flinched.
“You’re safe,” I said. “I promise.”
His teeth chattered.
“I— I can’t—” he stammered.
I yanked off my raincoat and wrapped it around him.
His whole body jolted like the warmth hurt.
I leaned in close.
“Don’t be afraid,” I said.
“I’ll protect you.”
He swallowed hard.
“My name is Andrew,” he whispered.
“I’m Claire,” I told him. “And you’re coming with me.”
His eyes filled.
“Am I gonna die?” he asked.
My stomach dropped.
I forced my voice steady.
“No,” I said. “Not today.”
Getting him to my camp was ugly.
Mud.
Wind. Dusk.
He slipped. I caught him.
“Hold my hand,” I ordered.
He grabbed on like I was a rope over a cliff.
“Where’s your group?” I shouted.
“School,” he cried.
“We were hiking. I got turned around.”
Thunder cracked. Andrew yelped.
“Eyes on me,” I said.
“Just me.”
He nodded fast.
In my tent, I moved fast.
“Boots off,” I said.
He stared like his brain had stalled.
“Boots. Off,” I repeated.
He obeyed.
His socks were drenched.
His hands shook too much to untie laces.
I did it for him.
I shoved dry clothes at him.
He changed with his back turned, trembling.
I poured tea from my thermos.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
Tap READ MORE to discover the rest 🔎👇
