Oscar wasn’t sure. All he knew was that they had already traveled five miles over rough terrain and he was feeling damned tired. He couldn’t believe that they were trusting this hand-drawn, faded, and now waterlogged map that had been made by God-knows-who, who might have been stoned or nature-drunk or just plain mischievous when he put these images on paper. Oscar took the GPS unit off his waistband and tried to pull up a map. But he hadn’t bought the detailed topo software, so all he could see was that they were somewhere in the mountains, with Fresno to the west. And that they now stood at just under 8,300 feet. There was no detail whatsoever. “I don’t know.”

Todd was fiddling with Tracy’s compass, shifting and adjusting the black wheel on a rectangle of plastic. “That’s almost due east,” Todd said, pointing at the distant range. “And this,” he gestured toward the more defined trail, “goes south.”

“So does this other one,” Tracy argued. “It just heads southwest a little.”

“It could be either one,” said Oscar. “Gwen? What do you think?”

Gwen was staring off, exhausted, not really engaged. “What?”

“Which way do you think we should go?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “It’s up to you guys.”

“Well, I think we go down,” Tracy said. “Why don’t we give it a shot? If it doesn’t seem right, we can always backtrack and take the other trail.”

They could, but the thought of having to climb back up the slope with their heavy packs did not sound appealing to Oscar. He was pissed they were in this predicament, but what could they do? “Okay,” he agreed.

And Todd said, “All right, we’ll try it. But let’s reassess in a mile or so. Okay?”

They packed up their trash and put their socks and shoes back on. Gwen looked disheveled—a few strands of her hair were escaping from her hat, and her face was covered with sweat. Todd’s neck and cheeks had burned through his stubble and he looked dried out; his legs were streaked with mud from the river. Even Tracy seemed worse for the wear. Her black hiking shirt was dusty and there was a big bruise blooming on her shin, which disappeared when she zipped her pant legs back on. Oscar knew he looked no better. But he realized he liked how they looked. They’d spent two nights in the backcountry, hiked almost fourteen miles, crossed a river, and topped out at a significant pass. They were battle-tested now. They were for real.

Tracy started down to the right, cutting steeply into the tight new canyon. Bushes and branches grew everywhere, scratching Oscar’s legs, and he was about to wonder aloud if this was a game trail when they were suddenly past the obstacles and the path opened up. It was narrow, but it was definitely a human trail—there was a deliberateness to the way the ground was cleared, and a few rocks and logs had been positioned to create steps. This wasn’t the smoothest, easiest trail, but it seemed to be the right one.

They’d hiked about twenty minutes when Tracy yelled, “Ow! Shit!” She turned back toward them, covering her shoulder. When she moved her hand, there was a dime-sized circle of blood—and a small piece of curved metal protruding from her flesh.

“Are you okay?” Gwen asked. “What is that?”

Todd looked closer. “It’s a fish hook.”

“How weird,” Gwen said. “Let me get my first aid stuff.” And quick as that, she slung her pack off and produced a small red bag, out of which she pulled tweezers, some kind of wipe, Neosporin.

Todd rolled Tracy’s sleeve up and held her arm in his hand. “It hooked you good, but I think we should be able to pull it right out. Can you take it?”

“Sure,” Tracy said. Her face was resolute.

Todd took out his Leatherman, opened the scissors, and cut off the short, curved end of the hook. Then he switched the tool to pliers and carefully pulled out the long part of the hook, working in a curving motion to follow the path it had taken through the flesh. Tracy’s face looked like she had smelled something awful—but there was no cry of pain, not even a sharp intake of breath. Then it came free, a sharp, bloody piece of metal, and the blood trickled out of the two small wounds. Gwen pressed some cotton against them, and they all stood and looked at each other.

“Are you okay?” Oscar asked, feeling useless.

“Yeah. It’ll be fine. But what the fuck? What’s a fish hook doing way out here?”

“There’s probably a creek down here,” Todd said. “Maybe someone just lost some equipment.”

“In a tree?”

Todd shrugged. “Who knows? Didn’t the ranger say there are guys who live out in these woods?”

Once the bleeding had slowed, Gwen dabbed some Neosporin onto the wound, applied a fresh ball of cotton, and pressed two strips of tape into place.

“Thanks,” Tracy said. “You’re an expert.”

“I’m with kids a lot,” Gwen replied. “You wouldn’t believe some of the stuff they get into.”

As they continued down into the canyon the trail grew indistinct, until finally they reached a point where there was no trail at all, just a solid tangle of bushes and trees. The ground was covered with fallen pine needles and the forest was so thick here they couldn’t see more than twenty feet ahead. They stopped in a small clearing and looked at each other. One especially large tree was trailing its limbs like an exasperated woman, arms flung down and palms turned up in surrender.

“Uh, we seem to have hit a dead end,” Todd observed.

“Yeah,” Tracy said. “Weird.”

They all stood silently for a moment. In the quiet they heard the trickle of an unseen creek.

“Well,” Tracy said, “maybe you or I could go explore and see if the trail starts up again.”

Todd shook his head. “I don’t know that it’d do any good. I think we should just go back.”

“Oh, come on,” Tracy said. “It can’t hurt to look around a bit, can it?”

They faced off now, quietly, but in clear disagreement. “What do you guys want to do?” Todd asked the others.

Gwen shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m following you.”

Then Tracy asked, “Oscar?”

“I’m not sure, either. The only thing I know for sure is that I have to take a piss.”

He unclipped his hip and chest straps and dropped his pack; it hit the ground with a leafy thump. He trudged off into the woods, not looking back. This was bullshit, he thought. This was ridiculous. Here they were, lost on some stupid-ass trek that was making them tired and confused, when they could have been on one of the established trails, they could have been with other people, they could have enjoyed the camaraderie and key valuable information that comes from traveling a popular trail. But no, they had to come out here, in the middle of fucking nowhere, where there were decapitated owl heads and random murderous fish hooks, and wander down a stupid path that was probably a black bear superhighway.

He kept walking until he was out of sight, energized by his anger, unzipped, and let loose against a tree. The release of his piss felt incredible; he enjoyed the sound of it hitting the bark. That was better. He stood there holding himself, with his eyes closed in tired relief. He was relaxed now in a calm, mindless way. The others all seemed far away and he didn’t care what they were doing. He wasn’t in any hurry to get back.

A piece of cold metal touched the back of his head. His heart skipped a beat and he blurted out, “What the—?” But he knew what it was even before the firm shove and the male voice that said, “Don’t move.”

He shuddered—as if the gun had shot him through with ice. “Uh, okay, okay,” he managed, raising his arms. He saw the pattern of a bug’s slime lining the bark; he saw a squirrel scurry into his vision and then away. “I don’t have any money, okay? I don’t have anything. I’m just passing through.”

There was no answer, just the gun against the back of his head, and the quick, harsh breathing of whoever was holding it. Now he thought of something, and repeated what he’d said in Spanish: “No tengo dinero. Sólo estoy pasando.”