Page 1 of Rescued by the Captain

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BRIA

Where am I?

As I get up from the ground, seeing the world become less of a blur around me, tall trees file one after another in rows, their branches stripped of green, and a million questions strike me.

Who am I?

Why am I here?

What — or who — brought me to this place?

Chills crawl across my skin. Could be because my arms are covered in nothing but a thin coat. I’m definitely dressed for autumn, or a short walk outdoors. But not to travel through the heart of the cold, windy woods.

I dust the dirt off my jeans. They fit my curves snugly yet weigh on my achy body heavily. I don’t recall putting on this coat or these jeans. The leather boots on my feet thud against the earth, echoing like drums.

The only thing I know is that I want to move. I stagger forward, balancing myself on tree trunks when I sway too sharply. It’s hard to walk at first, but I get better the further I go.

But how far do I need to go?

I have no idea where I’m headed.Home?I wouldn’t be able to pinpoint that place on a map.

Nothing rings familiar. But I don’t even know if I’d be able to tell if something was familiar.

WhatdoI know?

I’m here, deep in the woods right now. There looks to be nothing but bony trees for a long while.

And, a wet sensation is trickling down my scalp. I reach to wipe off the moisture. But when I lower my wrist, I realize the damp smear on it is scarlet.

Scarlet red, the color of fresh blood.

My legs lurch backwards. It’s a reflex, almost as if the sight of blood is recognition that something more has happened.

But I don’t step out of danger. There is nothing to run away from. The air is still; quiet stretches as far as I can hear. I’m all alone.

So, I ignore the droplets that drizzle the earth and keep walking.Keep moving.

My brown hair carries in the breeze. It helps me feel a little less revealed— like I’m protected from the openness of the woods.Maybe I’ll even see my reflection soon. The woods look too cold to have a river, but maybe there will be a cabin soon.

As I walk, snowflakes brush my face.

I don’t know if I want to be found or not.

Is there anyone looking for me?

Donte

I swerve onto the main road, eyes narrowed in thought. It’s a bad habit of mine. When I clock out of work, I should leave work behind at the station. But that’s easier said than done.

Especially when you’re replaying every stupid answer you gave during a job interview.

Damn it.

Colt Briggs. He’s the sheriff of Storm Canyon and has a mug so cold he could make a Marine Corps jump out of their skin. I’d know. I sat in his office for a half an hour, and I haven’t the slightest clue if I utterly bombed my interview or am about to be called into the police force soon.

I hope it’s the latter. A lot of the ex-military guys that I know celebrate being off the job like they’ve been released from hell. They don’t miss being woken in the middle of the night, told that they have to pace rocky terrain just to finish a single mission.

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