“Dylan, I—”

“Shhh,” Dylan shushed.

And then he heard her; sticks were breaking, leaves were crunching. Was she curious or angry? Then he could smell her, like she’d been in the garbage somewhere. And he heard her sigh and snort. She was dangerously close and he prayed Andy wouldn’t move or speak. And then there was a movement, a rustle very nearby, and then a sharp, scalding, terrifying streak of pain shot across his back and he reared suddenly in agony, a loud “Ahhh!” coming out of him despite his intention to be silent. He heard lots of rustling, but no additional clawing—thank God! That once was about all he could take. He heard the bear talking, cubs mewling. Their sounds didn’t seem to be getting closer; he prayed she felt invaded and was moving away.

Andy was trembling beneath him; he must be frightened to death.

“Don’t move,” Dylan whispered. “Play dead.”

Andy stilled. There was not the slightest movement beneath him. The poor kid, only five and faced with life or death.

Dylan held positively still despite the pain that blasted across his back. The bitch had gotten one good swipe and it hurt like bloody hell, but his heart was still beating. He had not posed a threat; she probably just slapped him to see if he was alive, then hustled away, but until he waited her out he couldn’t be sure. He tried to slow his pulse so he could be sure of what he was hearing. She could have gone back to her cubs and settled in to sleep, in which case she was far too close and getting Andy out of here might wake her.

“Andy,” he whispered. “I have to move a little. I have to see if she’s near us. Don’t you move, no matter what.”

“My foot’s stuck,” Andy whispered back.

“Shhh,” he said. Then he listened. Nothing.

He lifted his head slowly, looking over the thick trunk of the felled tree carcass under which they hid. He glanced into the surrounding forest in her direction, but he didn’t see her. She could have moved a little and still been near, but he couldn’t smell her. He lifted his head further and looked in other directions, but there was no sign of her. That didn’t mean she was gone. In fact he could run into her on his way back to the cabin. But he was hurt and so was Andy; they couldn’t stay here any longer.

“I’m going to move,” he said softly. “Don’t you move a muscle.”

He gingerly pulled himself off Andy and knelt beside him. He wiggled the little tennis shoe, stuck in a slit in the tree trunk, and as he moved Andy’s foot, Andy tried to stifle a cry. Then with a quick motion, he just pulled the boy’s foot out and left the shoe wedged there. He moved the boy’s ankle. “Hurt?” he asked. And Andy nodded, not even turning to look at Dylan.

He leaned down and whispered, “I’m going to try to carry you out of here—no talking. At. All.”

Andy nodded, his head still facedown. Dylan slowly and cautiously rolled Andy over onto his back, then lifted him into his arms. With great effort, he rose to his feet, wincing with pain. He just had to stay upright long enough to get Andy home and fortunately it was mostly downhill and not steep. He gripped the flashlight in the hand that was under Andy’s knees, but he didn’t turn it on until he’d made his way down the path for a few minutes, each step slow and careful so he wouldn’t trip, then he lit the way. “Andy,” he said softly. “If anything happens, if we run into trouble, take the flashlight, stay on this path down the hill—it winds around, but leads back to the cabin.”

“’Kay,” he said softly.

As Dylan walked a little farther, his breath came harder and he grunted a little with the effort.

“I can walk,” Andy said.

“Not with one shoe and a sore ankle,” Dylan pointed out. “You’ll cut up your foot and make your ankle worse.”

“I can go piggyback,” he suggested.

“Not gonna work, buddy,” Dylan whispered. “I have a scratch on my back.”

“From the bear?” Andy asked.

“She must’ve been scared that I’d hurt her cubs or something,” Dylan said. “We have to rest a second, Andy,” he said, setting the boy down briefly. He was dizzy and hoped it was from anything but blood loss. His watch told him it was eight o’clock. He’d dropped the backpack back by the dead tree and thus the water, so he’d have to keep going without it. He could feel the wet and cold on his back. The best thing, he thought, was to get where he was going as quickly as possible; get Andy to his mother, get some medical attention. “Okay, bud, let’s go,” Dylan said.

“I want to walk,” he said.

“The sticks and stones on the path will tear up your foot,” Dylan said, attempting to lift him again.

“I can walk until it starts to hurt my foot,” Andy said.

Dylan thought about this briefly. “All right, walk in front of me.” They proceeded that way, but it didn’t take Andy two minutes before he started limping, trying very hard to conceal it. “Okay, pal,” Dylan said hoarsely. “Come on, let me give you a hand.” Andy turned and Dylan picked him up, but this time he pulled Andy up facing him and Andy wrapped his arms around Dylan’s neck and his legs around his hips. He held him up under the rump. “That’s a little better,” Dylan said. And they set out again.

Dylan’s watch told him it was eight-thirty and just as he read that, he noticed a glow up ahead. They’d be coming to a clearing and the final rays of the setting summer sun would have lit the way—he just hoped it was the right clearing. He didn’t feel lost and he had seen what he thought were his markers, hoping they weren’t someone else’s.

“Getting there,” he said to Andy.

He felt Andy lean away from him and wipe his cheek; the kid didn’t even cry out loud.

“Do you have any idea how brave you are?” Dylan asked him. “You were still and quiet with that big old bear practically on top of you. You’re the bravest kid I know.”

“I was backing away like you said and tripped over that stupid tree,” he grumbled.

Dylan actually chuckled. “You did good,” he said.

“I’m gonna be in trouble,” he said.

“Aw, you might escape trouble—your mom is going to be so glad to see you. Never do it again, though. Never.”

“’Kay,” he answered. “I have to pee.”

“Hold it,” Dylan said. “Really, I see light. If it’s not the cabin, we’ll take a break and a whizz.”

“’Kay.”

The path came down the hill right behind the blackberry bushes and he saw that it wasn’t the setting sunlight, but headlights. The clearing was full of trucks and SUVs, all with their headlights trained on the forest in every direction. There were only a couple of men in the clearing, among them the town doctor and Conner. Jack’s wife was there, too, probably anticipating Andy’s possible injuries. Wouldn’t they be surprised. Katie was in the clearing, pacing. Leslie was on the porch, doing likewise. He put Andy down.

“Mom!” he yelled and ran, limping, to her. “Mom!”

“Andy! Oh, my God, Andy!” She ran to him and snatched him up in her arms. Mitch burst through the front door from the cabin, charging across the porch and yard to his brother.

Dylan just smiled.

And then he sank to his knees.

“Andy’s bleeding! Andy, where are you bleeding?”

“I’m not,” he said. “I don’t think I am. I didn’t get hurt, only that bear scared me.”

Mel Sheridan ran to them and with Katie, they were examining Andy’s face and hands, looking him over, finding nothing.

Then Conner was striding toward Dylan. “You get a little dehydrated, bud?” he asked calmly.

Dylan just shook his head, looking up at Conner with glassy eyes. It was as if all the adrenaline that got him down the hill and back to the cabin with Andy had drained out of him, leaving him weak. Andy must’ve gotten blood from Dylan’s back on his hands before he wiped his cheeks and eyes. Dylan had a brief and crazy notion that he was glad he couldn’t see his back. In fact, he decided he didn’t want to ever see it. He started to shake a little bit and looked down, trying for composure. Shock. He was going into shock.

Conner stood over him. It took him only a second. “Doc! Mel! Over here!” Then he gave Dylan a little support under one arm. “Christ, man, you got mauled. Here, sit down—let’s get you looked at.”

“Don’t look,” Dylan rasped out. “Bet it’s awful.”

Cameron Michaels was assisting Dylan on his other side. “Easy does it,” he was saying. “We’ll get the gurney over here.”

“I can walk,” Dylan said, more than aware how weak his voice was. “And don’t tell me what it looks like.”

“I’m going to wet your shirt before I cut it off,” Cameron said. “I want better lighting than this.”

“Better than this?” Dylan croaked. “I thought it was daylight with the cars.”

“If we help, think you can make it to the cabin?” Cameron asked. When Dylan nodded, Cameron said, “Let us do the work. You’re weak.”

“That five-year-old is heavy,” Dylan said. “Big for his age. Plus, he had to pee.” The men chuckled as they pulled him up. “God, I’m out of shape,” Dylan muttered, letting them lead him to the porch.

“Mel, will you grab my bag and a set up for IV Ringers?”

“Gotcha,” she said.

“Tell Katie…” Then his voice trailed off.

“Tell me what, Dylan? I’m right here.”

He looked around until he saw her, his eyes watering from the pain, stress and weakness. “Katie,” he said. “Blow that horn, honey. Bring in the searchers.”

Dylan had an impressive four furrows down his back, from his left shoulder blade to his right lower side. A mean slash. Deep enough to bleed heavily and leave an impressive scar, but once an IV had been started and he was rehydrated, he was no longer so weak. A tetanus shot, some IV antibiotics and mor**ine put him on the right side of the living. And all the men who had come to search for Andy admired his wound.

“That is shit hot,” Jack said. “I don’t think anyone around here has been mauled in twenty years.”

“Not bad, for an actor,” Preacher said.

“He was acting dead,” Andy pointed out to them for at least the tenth time. “We were acting dead together. But that bear didn’t like us anyway.”

“That bear’s days are numbered, I’m afraid,” Jack said. “Unfortunately for her, you can’t get away with that, even though that is a very shit-hot scar. I have a battle scar, but it’s nothing like that.”

“It’s on your ass,” Preacher reminded him. “And it’s the size of one round. Like maybe as big as a dime.”

“Yeah, but I bet Dylan can still sit. It was no picnic, let me tell you.”

“He’ll never let me hear the end of it,” Conner sulked.

“Got any more of that mor**ine, Doc?” Dylan asked. “Poor old Conner here could use a little something to ease his pain.”

“We played dead,” Andy said yet again. “Dylan was on the top, that’s why he got the scratch. That bear isn’t friendly.” He looked up at his mother. “Are you mad?”

“Yes,” she said. “I’m going to hug you all night long, but tomorrow I think I might yell at you all day long.”

“You don’t have to,” he said. “I’m not going to do that again.”

“I might still yell....”

“I think I’m going to have to break up this party,” Cameron Michaels said. “Dylan, I want you overnight in the hospital. Just one night, though the wound will probably bother you for at least several days, maybe a couple of weeks. I want to watch you for fever, infection, bleeding. I think we got ahead of it, but humor me. One night.”