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She sprang up and bolted out the back door for the woods, her feet exploding against the ground, her focus on reaching the safety of the trees. Behind her, an angry male voice pierced the air. She didn't dare look back, but pumped her arms harder, willed her legs to go faster. A series of gunshots reverberated in her eardrums and bullets tore into the dirt next to her. Her instinct was to duck, cover her head, cry even, but she pushed forward until she burst into the woods, not slowing even though branches clawed her skin and tore her clothing.

Another shot splintered the bark of a tree in front of her. She startled and jerked to the right, sucking in her breath, before plunging down a steep ravine, her arms doing the breaststroke against the thick underbrush. Her lungs burned, and dark spots formed at the edge of her vision, while footsteps crashed behind her.

She kept going until the trees thinned and more light filtered through the forest canopy. Dread crept over her. She was exposed again. A sitting duck. A bullet could hit her at any second, but over the pounding of her heart she heard rushing water. The river. Maybe if I can get to the river... She broke through the trees and into the open, using everything she had to propel herself forward. She finally reached the river's edge and stopped, staring at the water as it swirled and bubbled over a rocky ledge to the fast-moving, murky abyss below. Dangerous, deadly maybe, but behind her, leaves scraped and twigs snapped. He was getting closer. She cast one last glance over her shoulder, before tightening the pack on her shoulders and slipping into the river.

Ice-cold water shocked her muscles and whisked her from the bank, the weight of her pack and the power of the current sucking her under. Muddy water filled her ears, her throat, and clouded her vision. She fought to breathe, breaking the surface and gulping mouthfuls of air as her body slammed into jagged boulders. The garbled sound of gunshots rang overhead, and bullets sliced the surface of the water inches from her face. She managed one more intake of air, relaxed her body and allowed the current to carry her downstream.

*  *  *

Logan Greer cast his line and watched his fly dance over the water, breathing in the mountain air and exhaling the stress he'd stored over the past few months. There was something truly poetic about fishing, the sun gleaming on ripples of water, the fish waiting in shadowed pools, and the way a perfectly cast fly kissed the water. He sighed. It'd been a difficult month, which was his own fault. He'd been pushing himself at the hospital, taking on extra shifts in the ER, all while attending fundraising events to keep up with the never-ending bills and supplies needed to run his free clinic. Plus, his caseload at the clinic on his supposedly "free" hours had increased with the community's opiate epidemic issues. Exhaustion had caught up to him a few weeks back at the worst time possible—while attending a patient in the ER. Fatigue had triggered a flashback of his military service as a combat medic in Afghanistan, sending him into a downward spiral of unwanted memories and causing him to make a mistake that would forever haunt him. He'd spent the last three weeks regretting that mistake, but now he forced himself to redirect his thoughts. He'd taken this break not to dwell on the past, but to rest and reconnect with God.

Even as a child, this mountain and this river had been his reprieve from the rest of the world. It was a magical place, especially in the fall when the tree-filled valleys exploded with vivid rusts and oranges. He drew in a deep breath of crisp, sharp air and glanced upward to where a hawk scrolled broad cursive strokes over the blue sky, and for the first time in weeks, peace settled over him. He'd made the right decision, he knew, coming out here to spend a few days in the woods.

He cast again, but this time a gust of wind blew through the gulch and carried his fly, snagging it on the far bank. He yanked, trying to free it. No luck. Reeling in the slack, he waded through knee-deep water, following his line to where it wound around a cluster of driftwood. He bent to untangle it, gently coaxing the barb of the hook, when a splotch of color on the river's bank drew his gaze. He shielded his eyes and squinted. A woman?

He clamored through the water, slipping on the moss-slicked boulders, tossed the pole onto the shore, and then grasped at the rocky bank to hoist himself up the slope. A woman's body was there, crumpled on the riverbank, arms wrapped around her legs, long hair plastered to her face, her eyes only half-open. There was no response when he called out to her. He felt the cold flesh of her neck for a pulse, and found one, slow and faint, but steady. Was it possibly hypothermia? Even in early September, night temperatures could drop into the fifties, maybe even the forties. People didn't realize that it was possible to freeze to death in forty-degree weather, especially after submersion in cold water. At least her clothing had dried in the sun, warming her skin a bit. Still, her core temp wouldn't have been impacted enough, and if he didn't act quickly, she wouldn't make it.