Light was different.
She didn’t remember closing her eyes. Didn’t remember anything between the cigarette burning down to her fingers and now — just a gap. Hours, maybe. The kind of absence that wasn’t sleep, wasn’t rest. Just... nothing.
Sarah lay on the dirt floor of the barn, staring up at gaps in the tin roof where gray morning leaked through. Her body had catalogued the night without her permission: left shoulder throbbing where the rifle sling had dug in during her flight through the woods, ribs aching on her right side, knees scraped raw, a deep bruise spreading across her hip. Her hands were filthy, scraped and dirt-caked, dried blood dark under her fingernails.
She should move. Should do something.
She pushed herself up. The world tilted, steadied. Her mouth was dry, tongue thick. Mark’s bug-out bag sat against the hay bale where she’d left it, contents spilled across the dirt. Water bottles. Protein bars. First aid kit still sealed.
She reached for a water bottle. Drank. The liquid was cold going down, sharp against her raw throat. She’d screamed herself hoarse last night — or sobbed, she couldn’t remember which. For a moment the pain was the only thing that felt real.
The first aid kit. Red nylon, Mark’s precise labeling on the outside in permanent marker. She pulled it toward her, unzipped it.
Inventory first. That’s what Mark would do. Assess what you have before you use it.
Gauze pads. Medical tape. Antiseptic wipes. Band-aids in four sizes. Antibiotic ointment. Ibuprofen. Tweezers. Small scissors. Ace bandage. A small notebook and pen, rubber-banded together. Everything organized in clear plastic bags, labeled.
Sarah started with her hands. They’d taken the worst of it — palms scraped raw from catching herself on tree bark, dirt ground into the wounds. She tore open an antiseptic wipe. The sting was immediate and vicious. She worked methodically, cleaning each scrape, each cut, removing bits of bark and gravel embedded in her skin. The tweezers for the deeper splinters. Three in her right palm, two in her left.
Her knees next. Both scraped through her jeans where she’d fallen. She rolled up the denim carefully, examined the damage. Left knee — superficial, just blood and dirt. Right knee — deeper, a flap of skin peeled back, still seeping. She cleaned it, applied ointment, covered it with a large gauze pad and tape. Not quite bad enough for stitches, but close.
The bruise on her hip — nothing to do about that. Just purple-black spreading across the bone where she’d slammed into something during the run. A tree trunk maybe. She couldn’t remember.
Her shoulder. The rifle sling had carved a groove into the muscle, a burning line that had gone from pain to numbness and back to pain. She couldn’t see it properly, couldn’t reach it to treat it. She’d have to live with it.
Ribs — she pressed gently along her right side. Sharp pain, but nothing that felt broken. Bruised, probably. Cracked at worst. She dry-swallowed three ibuprofen.
The first aid kit was nearly empty now. Just some band-aids left, the ace bandage, a few antiseptic wipes. Everything else used up in fifteen minutes of triage.
She repacked what remained, zipped it shut, set it back in the bag.
Now what?
The phone was in her jacket pocket. She’d forgotten about it until her hand brushed against it, and then the weight of it seemed suddenly enormous.
She pulled it out. The screen was cracked — spiderwebbed across the top corner — but it lit up when she pressed the button.
4:47 AM.
No signal. Just the empty bars at the top of the screen, and a small X where the carrier name should be.
The phone glowed. Everything else was broken.
She stared at the X for longer than made sense. Miguel. She needed to—
Miguel.
His family. Ana and Sofia. The men with rifles surrounding their house.
Her thumb moved before she decided to move it, pulling up his contact. But the barn was too deep, too isolated. No signal meant no calls, no texts, no way to know if he’d made it out or if—
She couldn’t stay here.
She needed signal. Needed to know. Needed to try.
Sarah shoved the spilled contents back into Mark’s bag, her movements mechanical. Protein bars, water bottles, first aid kit. Her hands were shaking again but she ignored it, zipped the bag shut, slung it over her shoulder. The weight settled against her spine. Familiar. Mark had carried this bag on every camping trip, every range day. Now it was hers.
The barn door groaned open as she pushed through.
Outside, the morning was cold and colorless. Mist hung in the trees, thick enough that she couldn’t see more than thirty yards in any direction. The forest pressed in — silent except for the occasional drip of condensation from branches overhead.
She checked her phone again. Still no signal.
Move closer to civilization. That’s what Mark would say. Find high ground, open terrain, minimize obstacles between you and the nearest tower.
She didn’t trust her legs, but they understood before she did: forward was the only direction left.
She started walking.
The terrain was uneven, roots and deadfall hidden under layers of wet leaves. Her legs felt disconnected, numb below the knee, but they kept moving. Left foot, right foot. The rifle strap dug into her injured shoulder. She didn’t adjust it.
She moved with purpose now, her mind cataloguing details the way Mark had taught her. Tactical awareness. Environmental assessment. Threat vectors.
The woods sloped upward to her left — high ground meant better signal, better visibility. She adjusted her path, angling uphill. Each step sent pain shooting through her right knee, the gauze shifting under her jeans.
Sound discipline. She kept her breathing quiet, placed her feet deliberately to minimize noise. Broken branches could give her away. Rustling leaves. The scrape of her boot on stone.
Every thirty seconds she stopped, listened. Held her breath. Counted to ten.
Nothing. Just the forest settling. Water dripping. A bird somewhere distant.
But someone could be out here. The men from last night could have tracked her. Could be setting up a perimeter, waiting for her to move. She imagined them with radios, coordinating, sweeping the woods in a grid pattern.
Paranoia, probably. But Mark always said paranoia kept you alive when the situation was fluid.
After twenty minutes, one bar flickered onto her screen. Then gone. Then back.
She stopped, held the phone up, turned slowly. Two bars appeared when she faced east. Toward the road. Toward people.
Toward danger.
She needed three bars. Stable connection. Enough to make a call, check messages.
Sarah kept moving east, picking her way through the undergrowth. The mist was lifting now, visibility improving. She could see further — fifty yards, seventy. A fallen oak blocking her path. She went around it, staying low.
The terrain opened up ahead. She slowed, approached the tree line carefully.
A clearing. Maybe forty feet across, overgrown with wild grass and brambles. And on the far side — an old hunting stand built into an oak tree, half-rotted platform ten feet up.
She studied it. The stand would give her height, better signal, a view of the surrounding area. But it would also make her visible, exposed.
Risk assessment. Mark’s voice in her head, calm and analytical. What do you gain versus what do you risk?
She gained: signal, visibility, defensive position.
She risked: being spotted, being trapped up there if someone approached.
The gain outweighed the risk. Barely.
Sarah crossed the clearing in thirty seconds, moving fast and low. Reached the base of the oak. Looked up.
The ladder was weathered gray, bolts rusted. She tested the first rung with her weight. It held. She climbed.
The platform creaked under her boots but didn’t give. She crouched and checked her phone.
Three bars. Stable.
She’d made it.
Sarah pulled up Miguel’s contact. Her thumb hovered over the call button.
What if he answered? What would she say?
What if he didn’t?
She pressed call.
It rang once. Then straight to voicemail.
You’ve reached Miguel. Leave a message.
She ended the call. Stared at the screen. Tried again.
Same thing. One ring, voicemail.
Ditched his phone. Had to. He’s smart. He got them out.
Or they got him too.
She couldn’t know. Couldn’t confirm. The silence on the other end of the line could mean safety or death, and there was no way to tell the difference. Ana’s face came to her — always smiling, always warm. Sofia, gap-toothed, showing Sarah her drawings.
Sarah set the phone down on the platform. Closed her eyes. Breathed.
When she opened them, the screen had lit up again.
Dad - Missed Call (3)
Her stomach dropped.
Another notification appeared.
Dad - Missed Call (4)
Then another.
Dad - Missed Call (5)
She watched them stack. Six. Seven. Eight.
Her thumb moved to his name. Hovered there.
She could call. Right now. Just press it.
His voice in her head already — that particular tone he got when he was right and she was wrong. The one that made her feel twelve years old again, sitting at the kitchen table while he explained, patiently, why her logic was flawed, why her choices were mistakes, why she needed to listen.
You don’t understand the world, Sarah. You think you do, but you don’t.
How many times had he said that? How many times had she swallowed the anger, the shame, the feeling of being perpetually inadequate?
She’d made her choices. Built her life. Didn’t need—
Mark was dead and she’d left him there.
Her thumb moved to the call button. Stopped.
What would she even say? That she’d driven into it anyway? That she’d gotten him killed?
That he’d been right about—
No.
She set the phone down. Picked it up again. Her hands were shaking worse now, trembling so hard she nearly dropped it.
Nine missed calls. Ten.
The last time she’d driven past his place, three years ago, she’d kept driving. Her father’s voice on the phone: Sarah, we should talk. Sarah, I’m worried about you. Sarah—
And her, every time: I’m fine, Dad. I have to go. I’ll call you later.
Except she never did.
She could hear him now if she answered. That careful, controlled tone. Where are you? Are you safe? Tell me what happened.
And then, inevitably: You shouldn’t have gone. You should have called me first. I could have—
The old ache pushed up under her ribs. She caught it, pressed it back down.
Eleven missed calls.
She silenced the phone. Set it face-down on the platform.
Her chest felt tight, ribs sharp with each breath. She’d rather die out here than call him. Rather face the men with rifles than face his voice asking her why she hadn’t listened.
The phone buzzed against the wood. Another call. She didn’t flip it over to see.
The vibration crawled across the wood toward her knee, small and insistent.
After a minute, it stopped.
Sarah sat there, knees drawn up, arms wrapped around them. The forest was quiet. The mist had burned off completely now, morning sun filtering through the canopy.
She should get up. Do something.
But the phone was right there, face-down, and her father was calling, and Mark was dead, and she couldn’t—
She picked it up. Opened the browser. Typed.
The asshole with the phone last night. Leaning against Miguel’s porch railing, that smug grin on his face. She’d recognized him — local blowhard, always posting shit on social media. What was his name?
Her fingers fumbled on the screen. Josh. Josh something.
She searched variations. Josh militia central valley. Josh patriot.
There.
Josh Ryman — profile picture showed him in tactical gear, American flag background.
She clicked.
His page was public. Everything public. Posts about “defending freedom” and “standing up to tyranny.” Shared memes. Rants about the government. Screenshots of arguments he’d had in comment sections, always positioning himself as the reasonable one, the patriot, the real American.
And there — pinned to the top of his page:
Proud member of Central Valley Freedom Militia
With a link.
Sarah clicked it.
The militia page loaded. Profile picture: American flag overlaid with crossed rifles. Banner image: six men in tactical gear posing with AR-15s in front of a barn.
She scrolled.
Photos from training exercises. Men shooting at targets, running drills, standing in formation. Every face visible. Every name tagged.
Her stomach was empty but she felt nauseous anyway.
She kept scrolling.
There.
A post from two weeks ago. Group photo. Six men, full tactical gear, rifles held across their chests.
She recognized two of them immediately. The one who’d shot Mark — tactical vest over flannel, eyes pale-ringed and wrong — and the one with the phone, leaning casual with that shit-eating grin.
Their names were right there. Tagged in the photo.
Dale Kramer — Captain
Josh Ryman — Lieutenant
She started with Dale.
His profile was public, all of it. Him and the others in full gear, running through wooded terrain she didn’t recognize — dense forest, no landmarks. Posts about “tactical readiness” and “preparedness.” Photos of his truck, a lifted F-350 with thin blue line decals, but always parked somewhere different. Trailheads. Gas stations. Parking lots. She studied each one, hunting for a repeated backdrop, a street sign, a storefront. Nothing that told her where he lived or worked. Careful about that, at least.
She went back. Tried Josh.
The opposite of careful — the man couldn’t shut up. A dozen bars tagged, The Rusty Nail mostly, a hundred posts, his red Silverado in half of them. Everywhere and nowhere. But no apartment, no workplace. Accidentally smart, maybe. Posting everything except the thing that mattered.
The other two from that night. She went back to the group photos, studied faces, compared builds and gear. Brett Kowalski. Aaron Webb.
Brett’s profile. And there — right there in his bio. Works at Thompson Auto Body.
She scrolled through his photos. Hunting pictures. Fishing trips. His truck — black Tacoma, lifted, off-road tires. And then, three months back, a photo that made her stop.
Brett beside the Tacoma, beer in hand, grinning at the camera. Behind him, a white trailer with rust stains around the windows. Tagged only “Home sweet home.” No address. She zoomed in, worked the background — other trailers, power lines, a gravel lot — hunting for anything distinctive. Nothing. He’d been careful, or lucky, about that one thing.
But the bio was enough.
Aaron Webb gave her nothing. A more private profile, a few photos other members had tagged him in, no home, no work. A ghost, for now.
She sat back.
Dale, careful. Josh, loud and useless. Aaron, invisible.
But Brett had given her a starting point. Thompson Auto Body, right there in his bio. A workplace. A face. A truck she could recognize. Not everything — but enough.
The sun had moved. Hours had passed. Her phone battery was at 18%.
Twelve missed calls from her father. Three voicemails she hadn’t listened to.
But none of that mattered.
She had their names.