Page 28 of Unleashed

He smiled wryly. “Guess I’ll finally get to see what all this preparation is for.”

“Did you bring rain gear?” I asked.

“That I did. I have a pullover. The hood even has a bill.”

“Good. It looks like we’re in for a good storm.

The rain started as a soft patter, but quickly turned into a steady downpour, drops slicing through the leafy canopy above us. I cursed under my breath and shrugged off my pack to dig out my yellow pullover, yanking the hood over my head. Next to me, Slade mirrored my movements, pulling out his own rain jacket. We looked like twins in our matching bright yellow shells, but the humor of it didn’t quite land as the trail turned muddy and rocks became dangerously slick.

"Great," I muttered, adjusting the straps of my pack. I didn't mind the rain in theory, but it made everything more difficult. Mud sucked at our boots, and despite being waterproof, my boots were already beginning to feel damp inside.

I glanced over at Slade. His face was a mask of misery. His shoulders slumped, his hood clinging wetly to his face, and the occasional grunt told me his mood matched the weather. He wasn’t complaining, but I could see the way his mouth was set in a thin, tight line.

"You okay?" I asked, though I knew the answer.

"Just peachy," Slade muttered, trudging forward.

An hour in, my boots were soaked through, squishing with each step. My teeth chattered as a chill set in. Shorts had been a terrible idea. The rain jacket only came down to mid-thigh, leaving my legs to bear the brunt of the cold. Every muscle ached as I navigated the increasingly treacherous path, dodging slick rocks and avoiding slipping into the mud.

Slade was quiet beside me, too quiet. If one of us was going to crack, it would be me. I loved hiking, but the thought of settingup camp in this storm, huddling under a tarp for the night, was losing its appeal fast.

I halted and pulled out the small map from my jacket pocket, shielding it from the rain as best as I could.

“What are you looking for?” Slade asked, his voice tight with discomfort.

I squinted at the map. “Newtonville.”

“Are we close?” His tone betrayed a hint of hope.

“A couple of miles,” I said, pointing down the trail. “There’s a motel in town. With this weather, it might be full, but…” I trailed off, glancing up at him. “I could really use a hot shower and dry clothes.”

Slade exhaled, almost too quickly, as if he’d been holding his breath. “Yeah… I wouldn’t argue with that.”

I shoved the map back into my jacket, fighting the smirk tugging at the corners of my lips. His relief was palpable, and it made me feel a little less guilty about wanting to call it a day. We continued along the trail, the rain showing no sign of letting up. When we finally reached the road, I spotted the sign for the Backpack Motel about a mile up.

Slade winced as we stepped onto the asphalt, and I noticed the way he limped.

“What’s the matter?” I asked, eyeing his soaked boots.

“My heel,” he admitted with a grimace. “It’s killing me now. It was fine before, but these boots… once they got wet…”

I frowned. “The band-aids might’ve slipped off.” I nodded up the road. “It’s just a mile. Think you can make it?”

He gave me a weary smile. “I don’t have much of a choice, do I?”

I grinned back. “Nope. But think of the warm shower at the end of it. We’ll pray they have a room.”

Slade chuckled despite the pain, and we continued, boots squelching with every step.

CHAPTER 7

The Backpack Motel finally came into view, its neon sign flickering through the curtain of rain. The road had been a blessed relief after the muddy, treacherous trail, but we were both soaked to the bone and exhausted. The motel looked as I remembered—twenty rooms with an overhang that shielded the dark green doors from the rain. It always reminded me of the Bates Motel from Psycho, but fortunately, the owners were nothing like Norman.

"Sally and Nick Murrow," I muttered, a hint of a smile tugging at my lips. "Nicest people you could ever meet."

Slade trudged beside me, looking about ready to collapse. “I’ll take your word for it.”

As we stepped inside, the warmth hit us like a wave, and Sally Murrow’s familiar voice called out before I could even spot her behind the counter. “That isn’t Morgan, is it?”

---