Driving back down the mountain so soon after I’d darted up was almost embarrassing. I hung my head as the National Park worker gazed at me, confusion in his eyes. “I’m not giving up,” I wanted to tell him. “I’m here for an entire week! You’ll see!” Just then, I looked like an inexperienced nobody, a scavenger from the city, trying to reap the rewards of the mountain life.

It reminded me of the time my mother and I had tried to make a bonfire on the beach. We’d stacked a large pile of twigs and logs, making a proper triangle, only to discover we’d left the matches at home. We’d left the pile of tinder, hanging our heads. We’d gotten pizza on the way home and eaten it on the floor, in our pajamas. The antithesis of our goal.

The grocery store was a generic version of every specialty store in San Francisco. I entered, hearing the early ‘90s soundtrack, and set to work. I grabbed a bottle of wine, some juice and water, and three small chocolate bars. I opted for bread and cheese, some dried fruit, and some almonds, knowing that I’d be out in the woods for long days of hikes, and I couldn’t mess around with “diet” foods, like I did back in the city.

In fact, after not missing a day at the gym for the last six months, I resolved to eat whatever I pleased. With that thought, I piled another bottle of wine into the cart. “Why the hell not?” I breathed to myself. I needed to lighten up. Wasn’t that the point of this trip?

I piled the food and drink into a brown paper bag and paid with my debit card, flashing the cashier with a bright smile. “Pretty around here,” I told her.

“You one of them from the city?” she asked me, a single eyebrow rising high on her forehead.

“Erm… Yeah, I’m from San Francisco,” I said, feeling a sigh escape my lips. “Why?”

The woman snorted. “No reason. Can smell the city on you, I guess.”

I wasn’t sure how to respond. I gathered the brown paper bag, adjusting my shoulders.

“Just up the mountain, in a cabin,” I told her, almost trying to prove myself. It wasn’t like I’d opted for a hotel down the road. I’d be up there, building a fire with the matches I’d brought—I’d checked twice, just to make sure. Huddling in my blankets for warmth.

“Hmm,” the woman grumbled, adding a final, sarcastic “Good luck.”

I flashed my eyes toward her nametag, feeling my tongue stutter. Her name was Joy, a rather ironic name for such a sour character.

Before I said anything I didn’t mean, I spun toward the door and entered the parking lot. The sun had drawn lower in the night sky, casting long shadows. I’d now given up on my hike for the evening, choosing to replace it with a large glass of wine, perhaps a bit of meditation on the porch. If I felt especially daring, I could leap into that icy blue lake.

I guided my car back toward the cabin, pointing toward the tags on my car as I swept past the entrance to the National Park. The man at the entrance waved a burly hand. We were now familiar with one another. I was a part of the ecosystem.

Beyond the entrance, I drove along the winding paved path, glancing around the forest. The trees were mostly pines, thick, with their needles reflecting the last of the afternoon light. About a half-mile more, as I closed in on the cabin, I felt the car begin to sputter beneath me. I squeezed the steering wheel, feeling fright bubble in my stomach.

“No. You can’t do this to me,” I murmured, feeling smacked. I pushed my foot harder on the gas pedal, feeling the car strain. “Come on, baby.”

But it seemed that the harder I pushed on the gas pedal, the slower the car crept. After another moment, the tires no longer pulsed forward. Only the engine howled.

With my nostrils flared, I cut the engine and leaned back, huffing. Beads of sweat had begun to spew down my forehead and along my spine. My phone told me, in no uncertain terms, that there was no service. Zero bars.

This wasn’t the 21^st century any longer. I was on my own.

With my car still on the side of the road, I darted from the driver’s seat and lifted my brown bag, adjusting it in my arms. Glancing back down the mountain—a steep trek, indeed, I reasoned it would be best to bring my things into the cabin, hunt for a phone book or something, and call someone to come take a look at the car. If I couldn’t find anything by nightfall, then, hell, I’d just crack open the wine and try to find an alternative tomorrow.

I began to trudge up the mountain, leaning forward, clinging to the brown paper sack and feeling the sweat pool at the base of my back. The minutes clicked on, and still, I felt I was growing no closer to the cabin. To the side, I heard a shuffle. Glancing, panicked, I watched as a group of three squirrels whirled up the tree, chasing one another. Their tails bobbed and fluttered.

“Shh,” I whispered to myself, recognizing the fear rising in my heart. “It’s just a squirrel.”

But the sound of my own voice did nothing for me. I stopped, adjusting my stance, and turned back toward the car. It was now maybe three football fields away from me—pointed upward, so that I could only see its bright red nose. I felt stress rally in my stomach, something familiar in my normal life as an attorney.

The whole point of coming into the wilderness was to avoid that stress, I thought. The whole point was to dive into the forest, meditate, relax, find inner peace. But with the sweat continuing to pour, with my eyes blinking back tears, I felt nothing but sadness and shame. Who was I kidding? I was a city girl, hunting for a picture-perfect unreality.

With a sigh, I turned around and began to trudge back up the mountain, knowing that I couldn’t give up that night. It wasn’t like I could turn around and drive home.

As I pushed, my thighs screaming, I heard the chug of a vehicle behind me, slowly creeping up the path. Darting to the side, I tilted my head, gesturing for the driver to pass me. I sensed how pathetic I looked, and I didn’t want to look him in the eye.

But as the car approached me, it began to slow. It crept up beside me. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that it was a dark brown truck, an old-fashioned one, with large wheels and wide windows. Determined not to look weak, I continued to walk, my chin up and my eyes focused on the way ahead. The truck’s window began to slide down, forcing me to hear the crackling of its radio. It was the same station I’d been listening to on the route up. Early ‘90s.

I heard the giggling of a little girl. Flashing my eyes to the left, I found myself peering into the bright blue eyes of a young girl—perhaps six or seven years old, with slightly crooked, yet adorable front teeth. After a moment’s pause, the girl giggled again, giving me a smile.

“Hi,” she said, her voice high-pitched. “Are you all right?”

I stopped walking, nearly falling backwards due to the steepness of the mountain. Adjusting my bags, I couldn’t help but smile back at the girl.

“Hey there.”

“You look lost,” the girl continued.

Blinking several times, I peered over the top of the girl’s head at the driver.

With a jolt, I met with a pair of dark blue, gorgeous eyes, belonging to a man of about 32 or 33. He was handsome, his face somber yet kind. Even from where I stood, I recognized that he had a seriously muscular frame, that he was tall and broad. After a pause, he gave me a small smile—something that seemed a rarity for him. It seemed that he normally let the girl do the smiling for him.

“I’m not lost,” I sighed, trying to make myself smile. “I’m just…”

“That’s your car down the road, then?” the driver asked. His voice was deep, steady. I wanted to cling onto it.

“Sure is.”

“What happened?” he asked.

“It just stalled out,” I sighed. “I wanted to call a mechanic or something, once I got back to my cabin.”

The man gave me a nod. “We can take you the rest of the way.”

My brain began to rush with all the facts of the forests I’d learned over the years. First off, that any random stranger you meet on the road is probably out to murder you. But I sensed that I had another quarter of a mile to walk, all up hill, and my thighs were straining.

“Come on, now,” the man said. He dropped his hand to the seat between him and the younger girl. “Gracie, scoot over.”

Gracie. For some reason, the humanity of this name was something to cling to.

I gave them a soft smile and ducked forward, trying to reach for the handle of the truck door. But as I strained, the brown paper sack began to fall to the ground. With a jolt, the strange man darted around the car, showing me his incredible, muscular shoulders, and his height, perhaps 6 foot 3.

“I got it,” he said, opening the door wide. He brought his hands beneath the brown paper sack, bringing it toward him. In the exchange, his hands brushed mine.

I shivered. For some reason, as I passed him the brown paper sack, I couldn’t look him in the eye. It was like staring into the sun.

“Thank you,” I whispered. I stepped up to the truck seat, giving Gracie another smile. “You’re Gracie, huh?”

“Sure am,” she said, bouncing slightly. She adjusted a seatbelt over her waist. “And what’s your name?”

“I’m Serena,” I told her. “And this is your dad, I assume?”

The handsome driver slotted the brown paper sack behind the seats, then dropped back behind the steering wheel. He gripped it, raising his dark eyebrows high.

“I’m Ethan. Ethan Tiller. Great to meet you, and glad we caught you. Walking this road is a killer. People come out here from the city to lose weight doing it.” He laughed with a wonderful boom, glancing down at my trim frame. Suddenly, I felt completely aware of every crevice of my body. My every angle. My every curve. “Course, you don’t need that,” he offered.

Wait, was he complimenting me?

I swallowed sharply, waiting. I wondered what on earth I was getting up to, allowing this strange mountain man to whisk me off. What was I doing, so far outside of the city? What was I trying to prove?