There was no official meeting, no grown-up voice calling everyone to attention, but the moment formed anyway—quietly, naturally. Rafi stepped toward the fire pit, and the others began to circle around him, drawn by the quiet certainty in his posture.
No one asked what he was doing. They just watched, waiting to see if this was another storm, or something steadier.
He spoke without needing to raise his voice. Not through words, but through movement. He laid out the water jug again, then knelt and started checking through one of the sealed bins, pulling out the driest food packs he could find. He lined them up in rows. Trail mix, two granola bars, a vacuum-sealed bag of beef jerky.
Next came the maps. One had survived the flooding, though the edges were curling and the print had begun to smudge. He placed it on a flat rock, smoothing it with one hand. Then he began scanning the tree line again, his fingers tracing the path that should have led up toward the ridge—where the radio tower had once connected to the ranger outpost.
He wasn't the strongest, or oldest, or most popular. But at that moment, he was the one who moved like someone who refused to let things fall apart.
By mid-morning, a few of the older kids had joined him near the trailhead. One tall girl with her hair braided tight and a plastic whistle around her neck stood with crossed arms, silently volunteering. Another boy, lanky and quiet, adjusted his boots and nodded once. Rafi glanced at them both and handed over what gear they had—two ponchos, a half-full flashlight, one of the better-compacted food bags.
They didn't speak. They didn't need to.
Rafi divided the camp loosely in his head. The little kids would stay near the fire pit. The mess area would serve as shelter. The older ones who stayed behind would help protect and ration supplies. Everyone needed to know where the emergency water was, how to signal for help if things got worse. He made sure they understood, even without a lecture or a list.
Once he had a plan—barebones but real—he shouldered a makeshift pack, tied his sneakers tighter, and faced the ridge trail.
The air felt different at the edge of the forest. Still, damp, and close. The rain had stopped, but the canopy above was still dripping, creating a soft patter that never seemed to end. The trail itself was half-melted into a muddy chute, lined with slick roots and the occasional fallen branch. Each step would be slow. And careful.
He felt eyes on him as he took the first step forward. Kids standing silently behind him. Wondering if this was bravery or foolishness. Maybe both.
As they climbed, the world below disappeared. The camp vanished into trees and fog. The air grew thinner, colder, but the silence thickened. The higher they went, the more Rafi noticed how alone they really were. No birds. No bugs. No movement at all. As if the forest had been holding its breath since the storm.
They moved single file. Rafi led, scanning for footprints, scraps of fabric, anything that might point to where the missing counselor had gone. Occasionally, he paused to listen. But there was only wind and the endless sound of dripping leaves.
A mile in, they found something.
A trail marker, bent sideways. And beside it, something more chilling—boot prints half-buried in mud, heading off-trail, down into a dense pocket of forest where the ground sank with every step.
The prints didn't return.
Rafi crouched beside them, trying to gauge how old they were, how deep the indentations, what kind of pace the person had been keeping. It looked like a rush. Not running, exactly. But urgent. Fast.
He stood up slowly, spine stiff from tension.
The prints meant someone had come this way. But there were no signs of return. And the direction they led wasn't toward the ranger station or any supply point. It led into the opposite side of the mountain—where there was only thick brush and an old boundary fence that hadn't been used in years.
Still, they had to follow it.
He gestured silently, and the others fell in behind.
As they moved deeper into the trees, Rafi's thoughts began to stretch toward questions he hadn't allowed himself to ask before. Why had the counselor gone this way? Why hadn't anyone come back down to report? What if this wasn't just a storm aftermath—but something else?
A feeling crawled up his spine—one he hadn't felt since the night his life had cracked in half.
The feeling that something was very wrong.
And that no one else was coming to fix it.
They would have to fix it themselves.