Page 25 of One Step Too Far

“You’re bending at the waist. It’s squeezing your diaphragm, reducing your oxygen supply. I could take your pack—”

“Touch me and I will fucking kill you.”

“Then I recommend placing your hands on your hips, which will expand your chest capacity. Or leave your arms loose and focus on swinging them forward. Where your arms go, your legs must follow.”

I growl. Snarl. Whimper. Then grudgingly swing my arms.

It works. And enables me to focus on something other than my burning calves and exploding heart rate. I can do this.

I fall farther behind.

“You can go ahead,” I mutter to Bob, completely humiliated.

“I’m good.”

“I hate pity.”

“Then stop being so pathetic.”

“I hope Bigfoot kicks your sorry ass.”

“Wouldn’t that be something? Please take video.”

I try to snarl again, but it comes out more as a moan. There’s no fun in insulting someone who refuses to be insulted.

A disturbance up ahead. A figure has stepped to the side of the trail as Daisy and Luciana plod silently past.

Miguel from the college trio. He’s broken from the group to stand off to one side, bent over at the waist as he struggles to catch his breath. His short dark hair is plastered against his skull, his khaki shirt totally soaked through. He looks as good as I feel, which, given his considerably younger age and compact, muscular build, makes me feel slightly better about myself.

He glances up as we near, his hands planted on his thighs.

“Go... ahead,” he manages.

“Fuck... that,” I gasp back and halt beside him. Bob stops as well. Compared to us, the bushy-bearded Bigfoot hunter appears perfectly refreshed. I have a fantasy of him tossing Miggy over one massive shoulder, me over the other, and carrying us the rest of the way. I really wish he would.

“Water,” Bob suggests now. “Small steady sips till you get your heart rate under control. Otherwise, you’ll further dehydrate yourself vomiting.”

“You think?” I snarl.

Miggy nods wearily. He fumbles with his stainless steel water bottle. I reach over and do the honors. As a show of gratitude, he does the same for me.

Luciana and Daisy have now disappeared from view, leaving the three of us behind. The weak links. Well, two of us, anyway.

Miggy’s ragged breathing is starting to slow. The young man looks terrible, his tan face flushed, his shirt drenched. I wonder if he drinks as much as his buddy Josh. Or if he’s simply a mere mortal, not accustomed to hiking a gazillion miles straight up.

Inhale. Exhale. Drink. The thundering in my ears begins to subside. I remain too hot, physically spent, and incredibly shaky. My feet—I didn’t know they could hurt this bad, and I don’t even have blisters. I’m not sure where I’ll find the resilience to begin again.

Miggy hands me his heavy water bottle. I return it to its side pouch. He does the same for me.

He peers at the steep ridge of dirt punching relentlessly up through the hot, dry woods. Where the rest of our party has gone before us. Where we must now follow.

“I wanted to golf,” he murmurs. “That weekend. I voted for golfing. Why the hell didn’t we just go golfing?” Then, almost savagely: “I hate these goddamn woods.”

Which is when I finally understand the real reason Miggy broke from his friends—there is more than sweat beading down his cheeks.

“I hate these goddamn woods, too,” I tell him after a moment.

He laughs brokenly.

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