Mathew remembered what Angela had told him before he left. “He’s smart,” Angela whispered over and over. “He knows to stay put if he gets lost. We taught him that.” But he also knew that a six-year-old’s logic often failed when the shadows grew long, and the coyotes began their evening chorus. The mountain didn’t care how smart a child was; it only cared about the cold.
A searcher up front, near the old lumber mill, had found something. Mathew held his breath, his heart hammering against his ribs. “We’ve got a visual on a boot print,” someone said. “Size 12, child’s. Heading north toward the Black Slate Ridge.” Someone quickly relayed the message home. It was the first real lead, but it was heading toward the most dangerous part of the mountain.