Gwen’s skin prickled with revulsion and fear. He was gone, she told herself. He was gone, and yet she could still see him clearly.

Ranger Montez reached out and covered her hand. The warmth of her touch brought tears to Gwen’s eyes.

“I’m sorry,” the ranger said. She took her hand away, and after a moment she spoke again. “The Mexican growers are just as bad. They kill anyone who gets in their way. Three innocent people who wandered into grow areas, like you did, have been murdered just this year—all on national forest and National Park Service lands. Not to mention what they do to their own. The young guys who guard the fields—some of them are captured in Mexico and forced to do this work, or the cartels threaten to murder their families.”

Gwen thought about José, his youth and his fear. She thought about Oscar, falling forward, the torn and bloody flesh. “That second guy was trying to kill us too.”

Ranger Perry nodded. “And they will keep trying if they think you had anything to do with their garden being destroyed, or with their men getting killed. Better they believe that Arthur did all of it. And A.J.’s associates can believe that he was killed by one of them—or that he just fell over a cliff.”

“And the cycle will continue,” Gwen remarked. “Each side blaming the other.”

“Better they blame each other than you,” the ranger said. Now he leaned forward again. “Look, I know you want to do the right thing. But in this case the right thing is making sure that you stay safe. You and your families.”

Gwen heard the implication loud and clear, and heeded it. She looked at the two rangers’ sober, concerned faces and could not believe she was really having this conversation. “And this is the story you’re putting out there?” she asked.

“We’ve already put it out there,” said Ranger Perry. “You and your friends were on a backpacking trip and happened to get lost. And separately, in another part of the mountains, a bunch of bad guys had a conflict over drugs and several of them were killed.”

Gwen was silent for a moment. She knew it made sense—and it would save her from having to talk about what happened.

“What you did . . .” Ranger Montez began. “What you did took a whole lot of guts. You hiked almost fifty miles, over two major passes, in what, three days?—with no shelter and I’m sure no sleep.”

Gwen thought about this. Fifty miles. It seemed so long. And in that distance everything had changed.

“You were attacked by a murderer,” the ranger continued, “and you fought him off with your bare hands and killed him. It’s pretty great.” She shook her head. “It’s pretty unbelievable.”

For the first time Gwen felt the truth of this—relief, and amazement, and pride. “Well, me and the dog,” she said. “Hey, where’s the dog?”

“With your friend Todd.”

She was relieved. “He took her home to LA?”

“He took her, but he isn’t in LA. He’s here.”

“I thought you said he’d been discharged.”

“He was.” And now the ranger broke into a big smile. “He stuck around to wait for you.”

* * *

The next morning, Gwen woke up in time to see Oscar loaded into the transport ambulance. She hadn’t realized how tiny the hospital was until she went outside—smaller than her office building at work, the size of a bus station in a lonely country town. Oscar was in a travel gurney, swaddled in blankets, with two IVs attached to his arm. His shoulder was bandaged, and there were dark circles beneath his eyes. He was groggy from pain or drugs, but when he saw Gwen, he smiled.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” she said. He was just about to be lifted through the ambulance door.

“I don’t feel so hot,” he replied slowly. “They’re taking me to Huntington Hospital, to be closer to home.”

“That’s good. Claudia and your mother can take care of you.”

He lifted his hand toward her, and she grasped it. “Thank you,” he said, eyes bright and intense. “Thank you for saving me.”

When Oscar was gone she thought about calling Todd, but she realized she didn’t have his number. Then she remembered that it wouldn’t have mattered anyway, since he didn’t have his phone. She’d seen Ranger Montez again that morning—the ranger had been there when Gwen woke up, and had made sure she’d eaten breakfast—but Gwen had forgotten to ask what hotel Todd was in. They’d avoided speaking of what had happened and talked instead about other things. Gwen told Ranger Montez about her job and learned that she was from Southern California too; she’d grown up in San Diego and had fallen in love with the outdoors through trips with the Boys & Girls Club. Ranger Montez entertained Gwen with stories of life with the National Park Service, silly tourist and animal encounters—like the man who ran naked and screaming through a campground after finding a bear in the shower; like the partying hikers on Mount Whitney she’d convinced to stop drinking with the promise of a bar at the summit.

Gwen found herself laughing for the first time in days. But she was ready, more than ready, to go home. The ranger had said that Todd would pick her up at noon, and since she had a couple of hours, she decided to go out and buy some clothes. The hospital staff had brought her a pair of jeans, a shirt, sneakers—but they were all too big, and she didn’t like to think about where they’d come from. The rangers had taken her hiking clothes and pack, which was fine with her; she didn’t want to see any of it, anyway. But they’d brought back her ID holder with her credit card and cash. So she put on the ill-fitting hospital clothes and ventured into the town.

Her legs and back were sore and she felt a little wobbly, but otherwise, she was uninjured and grateful. What an amazing thing to be in a town! It was a small place, three stoplights, and half the storefronts on the main strip were empty. The town appeared to be blue-collar white, with a few Natives here and there. There was a Ben Franklin, a hardware store, a shop that sold fishing supplies, all in old brick buildings that made the place feel like Main Street from the 1950s. And yet walking down the block, past the American flags and red, white, and blue streamers left over from the Fourth of July, Gwen was overcome with joy. She was out of danger, back among the living.

She found a small general store and chose the simplest things she could: jeans that fit, a polo shirt, some no-name sneakers. Not the cutest stuff for sure, but it would have to do. And even in this simple outfit, she felt infinitely better—clean, and ready to reenter her life.

She returned to the hospital along quiet backstreets, moving for the sake of moving and not trying to outrun anything. The whole town was dwarfed by the mountains behind it, which loomed like a wave about to break. She stopped and looked at them, this range that had stood for tens of thousands of years before her and would continue to stand long after she was gone. Deep in those mountains three men had died. And somewhere, maybe, Tracy still wandered. Where was she? And how was it that Tracy was the one who hadn’t made it out, when Gwen was here, in one piece, and alive? For a moment she remembered the intense, wild fear, the sense that she might die at any moment. It was over, she was safe, and about to head home. She offered up a silent prayer of thanks.

When she got back to the hospital, Ranger Montez had returned. Gwen filled out a few forms related to the rescue, and then a few more for the hospital. She handed them back and then the ranger reached out and grasped her hand. “I’ve got to go,” the ranger said. “But it was really a pleasure to meet you.” She held Gwen’s hand just a second longer than she needed to, the dimples coming back as she smiled.

“Thank you, Ranger Montez,” Gwen said, meaning it, sorry to take her hand away. What an impressive person, she thought. What a wonderful calming thing it had been, just to be able to look at this woman.