The headlights of the sheriff’s car finally broke through the trees at the edge of the clearing.

Dorian looked at the lights, then back at me, his face desperate.

“This is your last chance,” he yelled over the sound of the wind.

I braced myself.

The door of the sheriff’s car slammed open in the distance.

I lunged for the book.

My fingers scraped against the rough, cold leather of the logbook.

Dorian jerked his arm back, but his boot slipped on the loose gravel at the edge of the ravine.

I threw my weight forward, grabbing his wrist with both hands.

The cold wind whipped off the mountain drop-off, stinging my eyes.

“Let go!” Dorian hissed, his fingers tightening on the spine of the book.

I dug my heels into the dirt and twisted his arm downward with all the force I had.

The leather popped out of his grasp.

I fell backward onto the hard ground, clutching the logbook tightly to my chest.

Dorian stumbled on the edge, his arms flailing before he found his footing.