The flight left at six the next morning.

I packed my laptop into my bag and cleared my desk, lockable drawers clicking shut.

The sun was setting over the dry Texas hills when I drove out of the base gates that evening.

The sky was a bruised purple, fading into dusty orange at the horizon.

I drove straight to my apartment, the air in the car thick and hot despite the vents blowing.

Inside, I packed a single duffel bag with durable clothes, hiking boots, and a heavy flashlight.

I did not sleep much that night.

Every time I closed my eyes, I pictured the mountain valley where the cabin stood.

My father had taken me there when I was twelve, teaching me how to track deer in the high grass.

He had told me the land would always be my sanctuary.

Now, Dorian wanted to pave over it for a quick profit to fund my stepsister’s lifestyle.

By five in the morning, I was parked in the airport rental lot.

The terminal was cold and smelled of stale coffee and floor wax.