Luck And a Prayer. Cynthia Cooke
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as the forest enveloped her. She had an excellent sense of direction. Everyone had always said so. She’d never once gotten lost in L.A., and with all those freeways that was quite an accomplishment. A few measly trails wouldn’t confuse her. All she had to do was keep heading downhill. She trotted for a minute, pretending it was her morning run, until a heavy tightness banded her chest. Must be the altitude.
Stopping to catch her breath, she dug into her pack for her compass and cell phone. She’d call Ben and let him know she had the evidence and would be home by dinner. She pushed the power button, then waited for the familiar writing to appear across the screen. No reception, nothing.
“Man,” she grumbled. “How do people function out here?” In disgust, she dropped the phone in her bag and studied her compass. Northwest. Great. What did that mean? Which direction had she left her car? At the bottom of the hill, dummy. She shoved the compass back in her pack and continued down the trail. All the trails had to lead to the same place, so if she just stayed on this one, she’d get there. Eventually.
After another twenty minutes, her feet began to sting. After forty, they were screaming for mercy. She found a big rock, sat on it, and pulled off her boots. “Eight miles,” she grumbled. Why hadn’t she just camped out at the bottom of the hill and waited for them to come down? Why was she always in such a hurry to get herself into these situations?
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