The first drops hit the windshield like warning shots. Within minutes, the scenic mountain road shifts into a treacherous slope of mud and running water. Each turn brought us deeper into the storm's embrace. Until the familiar comfort of our family outing dissolved into something far more dangerous.

  Shaking from side to side on a limited visible road, we progress slowly. The windshield wiper barely manages at full speed. And a waterfall runs down beside my door, along the mountain wall.

  With some hesitation, I dare glance at the driver’s side, where the endless white cloud cliff awaits. Wally pretends to stay calm, so as not to scare the two behind.

  I smile at Zoe, wanting to project confidence so she doesn’t become afraid. Only then do I realize how peacefully she’s admiring the water running down the glass. Not caring at all about the cliff behind it. Perhaps she’s innocent, even to danger.

  Holding Zoe, I search Ella’s eyes for any signs of worry. But she keeps her gaze steady on the road, calm, trusting her husband completely.

  I wish I had that much confidence that we wouldn’t be dragged down the cliff.

  After a steep curve skirting the cliff's edge, we finally enter the valley, moving away from the deadly drop. But relief is short-lived — during the descent, I feel the tire lose traction as if we were on a runaway roller coaster.

  When I think the situation is improving with the gentler incline, I spot a rushing river cutting across the road ahead. Now we’re officially in ‘Long Flume’ mode.

  “Just 20 more km, and we’ll be there,” I announce, clutching the signal-less GPS and the childish tourist map.

  I silently thank every meter we pass without obstacles, seeing each road sign as a beacon of hope.

  The river is wide and swift, but shallow enough for us to cross without trouble. However, just a few km later, the tires lose traction. The car struggles, sliding backward as Wally jerks the wheel, trying to regain control. Then, with a sudden jolt, we stop. At least we didn’t end up in the river, which appears to be rising with the relentless downpour.

  For a moment, we savor the stability, letting the adrenaline fade. Then Wally tries again, but the car doesn’t budge. He turns the wheel every which way, but it’s useless. We’re struck. Completely bogged down.

  He watches the storm through the window. I take a deep breath. Then, he turns to me.

  “Let’s get out,” I say, backing him up. “Ella stays at the wheel and hits the gas when we signal.”

  As soon as I step out, my foot sinks up to my ankle in the mud. The wind lashes the rain against me, each thick, icy drop stabbing like tiny needles. Within seconds, I’m soaked to the bone. I knew something like this would happen.

  “Honey, can you squeeze through?” I hear Wally shouting over the storm. “Or should I carry you?”

  “I got it, don’t worry. Let’s put all those Pilates classes to the test,” she jokes.

  “Want to carry me instead? I wouldn’t mind,” I say, making Zoe giggle at my exaggerated grimace of disgust at the mud. Wally just rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “Alright, I’ve unearthed the brutish man inside me.”

  I take my first step… and my shoe stays behind, swallowed by the mud.

  “More like Cinderella,” Ella teases, daring me to argue.

  “Good thing it’s not made of crystal, or I’d have cut my foot,” I feign concern, then crouch down and retrieve it.

  First, we try the simplest solution — pushing the car while Ella accelerates. No luck. Next, we check the wheels — partially sunken into the mud, one buried deep in a hole. The hole probably saved us from rolling into the river, but now it’s keeping us from moving forward.

  Using Zoe’s toy shovel and plastic plate, we dig around the wheels, clearing the mud and deepening the hole to create a path for the tire, hoping to push it forward and up the slope.

  We’re covered in mud from head to toe, the splashes accumulating with each failed attempt to free the car. My body trembles, and I can’t tell if it’s from the cold or the exhaustion of more than three hours of practically carrying the car.

  Our phones are still useless, and the storm shows no signs of letting up.

  “What if we leave the car and walk to the campsite? It’s not that far. We can take the minimum amount of luggage and Zoe,” I suggest.

  “We still have at least 15 km to go. By the time we arrive, all four of us will be frozen and soaked, just like probably most of our luggage. Only a few things are in waterproof bags,” Wally replies, still out of breath, while trying to use a log as leverage.

  “And we can’t leave the car here, even locked, right?” I ask, digging with what’s left of the plastic shovel near the tire on the other side to make room for another log, getting irritated with the water that keeps getting in my way.

  “The car is the least of our problems right now. We need to get out here, preferably without catching pneumonia in the middle of summer,” he says, his voice hoarse with frustration.

  “So, we stay here. We camp in the car or set up camp on the road. Maybe it’s better… it’s already getting dark.”

  With few options left, we hold onto hope that something will go right until the only sounds we hear are the rain and the thunder. Now, in addition to the storm, darkness completely surrounds us.

  Suddenly, Wally becomes alert, his eyes fixed on the road, focused. I watch him, but all I can see is the darkness ahead, illuminated only by the few meters visible under the headlights, which can barely cut through the downpour. Then, I hear the low hum of an engine cutting through the storm. An engine. And it’s getting closer.

  “Someone’s coming,” I say, informing the two inside the car.

  “Maybe they can help us,” Ella suggests hopefully, flashing the headlights.

  “It’s coming the wrong way… Do you think there’s any obstacle ahead?” Wally observes the light passing between the trees and the dense rain.

  “Still looks pretty far. It’s approaching slowly.”

  “Should we leave a tree branch up ahead as a signal to halt, in case they don’t see us because of the rain?” Wally suggests, searching through the undergrowth.

  “It’s here.” I see the single headlight drawing closer in a straight line. “A motorcycle? Or is the other headlight broken?”

  “Hey... Hi...” Wally waves his arms over his head, still gripping a branch.

  “Drop that stick, you’ll scare him!” Ella warns her husband, who quickly tosses it back to the roadside.

  A big man like him running toward someone, shouting while holding a stick, must be extremely intimidating.

  A rally bike approaches, the rider dressed in a black raincoat and a helmet with a powerful headlamp on top, carefully scanning the road and surroundings.

  When the beam reaches us, he moves a little farther before stopping at the top of the incline, a few meters away.

  Behind the bike, I notice a small cart hitched to it. From inside, a dark shape leaps out — a black wolf, which immediately fixes its gaze on us.

  Wally gestures for me to help him talk to the rider. Now, he seems hesitant, afraid of scaring the much smaller man even more with his sudden approach.

  “Good evening, sir,” I say politely, trying to smile, even though the night is anything but good.

  The helmet doesn’t even turn in my direction as I approach; the motorcyclist simply gets off the bike. He rudely ignores me, turning his back, more interested in the small cart.

  The dog steps in front of me as I move forward, positioning itself between me and the man. I step back at its warning growl, holding the broken shovel in front of me for protection in case it attacks.

  When I look back at the man, I see that he’s holding a sharp metal shovel against his chest, threatening to use it as a weapon.

  With my other hand, I push Wally’s back toward the man, signaling for him to deal with the motorcyclist while I handle the aggressive dog.

  However, both the dog and the man move away from us. Wally follows them while I signal Ella to lock the car—who knows if he’s after them or the vehicle?

  Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

  I shove my broken pink shovel into my pocket, feeling pathetic, and walk, trying to remember where Wally threw that piece of wood, the perfect size to use as a baseball bat. If needed, I’ll run to grab it and fend off the dog.

  They split up, one on each side of the car, following the motorcyclist's instructions. But Wally and I follow only the man.

  When we reach the back, he rips off the levers we had spent so much time putting on and begins digging around the tire.

  On the other side, I hear the animal doing the same. Great, the dog is more useful than I am with my poor shovel. What an interesting feeling.

  “Can I help with anything?” I ask, but the helmet doesn’t budge, not showing any sign that he heard me. Is he deaf? Does he not understand? Or does he simply not want to talk to me?

  He straightens up, apparently finishing what he was doing. He walks over to the dog and signals for it to stay, not saying a word. He only uses gestures with the animal — maybe he's mute.

  Then he goes back to the motorcycle, and we follow him. I signal to Wally to try speaking to him as well, so I don't look like the only idiot talking to myself.

  The motorcyclist takes two metal plates from the cart attached to the bike.

  “Can I help place one of the traction boards?” Wally suggests, extending his hand, and the man lets him take one.

  Maybe he isn’t deaf, or did he just understand the gesture? I’ll grab the other, but he doesn’t let me pull the board back forcefully. I feel him moving it to the side, almost about to hit me with it. I let go and quickly step back.

  He embraces the board, marching with stiff steps. And for some reason, I feel like I offended him by trying to help. Why? How could I have offended him? To what extent did I irritate him for him to try to hit me?

  Maybe the problem really is with me. He knows who I am and hates me because of it. Then I recognize the jumpsuit — it's darker because of the night and the rain, but it's the green jumpsuit. The strange man who mocked me. He's wearing a helmet, but it has to be him.

  I step back without even realizing it. Why do I feel afraid of this man? Also, he seems to hate me without even knowing me, and he already tried to hit me out of anger. It’s better to keep some distance from him.

  With the boards in place, I see Wally nodding at the man.

  “Try accelerating now,” I say to Ella inside the car.

  “The car got some traction, but it didn’t move,” Wally observes, watching as the vehicle rolls back the few inches it had gained. “Try again, love.”

  We hear the man tap twice on the other side of the car.

  “Wait,” Wally says, and I see the man stop in front of the hood.

  He knocks twice as if knocking on a door, and Ella opens it.

  The stranger starts fiddling with some parts while Wally and I pretend to understand what he’s doing. Basically, all I see is a big metal box with a logo — the rest are just accessories around it, which must serve some purpose; otherwise, they wouldn’t be there.

  Why would I need to know? If something goes wrong, you just call roadside assistance. The only problem is that... there’s no signal here.

  The man pours a bottle of water, checks a dipstick covered in oil, and seems puzzled. A moment later, he mimics turning a key while looking at Wally.

  “Love, put it in neutral and give it a little gas.” Did Wally really figure all that out? The stranger nods, confirming Wally’s assumption.

  The man cranes his neck, focused on the engine.

  “Stop,” the command is abrupt, and startled, Ella turns off the car.

  Oh, so he does talk. He’s not mute. And I don’t think he’s deaf, either. He just ignores me — so much that I almost thought he was blind as well.

  “What was that screeching sound?” Wally asks, having missed it. I glance at Ella, who shrugs, just as clueless.

  The man disappears for a moment, and before long, I see a light coming from under the car. When I crouch down, I notice a puddle reflecting the glow like a soap bubble.

  “It’s leaking oil,” Wally informs us.

  “Shit. That’s bad, right?” I ask the man as I straighten up, but once again, he acts like I don’t exist. He just walks off toward his bike’s trailer, vanishing into the darkness.

  As he steps back into the car's headlights, he's holding a chainsaw.

  If he really hates me this much, this is the perfect opportunity. We’re going to die. He knows the car won’t start, and the only things we have to defend ourselves are a broken shovel and a piece of wood. How the hell is a stick supposed to protect us now?

  His firm steps are headed straight for me. I knew it. He hates me. He wants to kill me.

  Two options: the forest or the driver’s door. But Ella’s in the way. The forest is never a good idea — serial killer movies make that obvious.

  Better to stay and face him. Frozen in place, I feel the tension grow with every step he takes. The stranger walks past me, and I can barely breathe, bracing myself to hear the slightest movement. If he attacks from behind, I need to dodge and counter fast. Our only chance is to catch him off guard.

  A firm grip clamps down on my shoulder. Now. I spin with everything I’ve got, ready to knock him off balance — only to find myself facing Wally’s massive frame.

  Why does this man scare me so much? Is it the strange energy he gives off? He is so... odd. I've dealt with strange people before, but there’s something off about him. Something different. Very strange. But Wally doesn’t seem scared. Just... watchful. Why isn’t he afraid? Not even a shiver from this man.

  He raises an eyebrow, unimpressed by my pathetic attempt to trip him. That move might’ve worked on the other guy — someone my size, probably weaker than me. But against Wally? Not a chance.

  My friend looks at me like I’ve lost my mind, while all I want is to protect us from this stranger who clearly hates me.

  The sound of the chainsaw fills the air, drawing our attention. I watch as the man leans down, cutting through a fallen log.

  Why does this guy scare me so much? Is it that… mysterious energy? Something about him throws me off. He’s just so… strange.

  I’ve dealt with weird people before, but there’s something off about him. Something different. Really strange. Is this how some people feel when they meet a serial killer?

  But Wally doesn’t seem scared. Just… focused. Why isn’t he afraid? I don’t think of myself as easily scared, but this guy sends a chill down my spine.

  “Is it for traction? Worried the car might slide back into the river?” Wally asks, picking up one of the freshly cut logs. The man nods quietly.

  My friend begins carrying the wood to the car, and I decide to help. But Wally has already taken most of it — leaving just one for me.

  Again, with nothing to do, I watch as the man stops working.

  “Be careful not to slip.” I fill the silence, watching his foot adjust to the unstable ground.

  He ignores me, wiping the fog off his helmet, lifting the visor, and cleaning his prescription glasses.

  I run to the car in search of a packet of tissues. Quickly, I head toward him, eager to finally be useful. My foot gets stuck in the mud, and inertia takes over. I crash into the log, embracing it.

  Safe, I lift my gaze to the man, who holds the chainsaw over his head and glares at me with hatred and contempt. There is no more perfect opportunity.

  “Step aside,” he orders, turning off the chainsaw as if I were a child. I swallow my embarrassment and stand up.

  “Give me a hand here,” Wally calls my attention, standing with the wood in his hands.

  I approach him, feeling the penitence, being extra careful not to trip as he tries to hold back his laughter.

  Depressed? Yeah, right. For someone who laughs at me, he sure laughs a lot.

  “I was trying to help.” I stare at the dirty, useless package of tissues I’m still clutching.

  “We know that.” I can hear the humor in his low voice as he works with the wood behind the tire.

  Soon, the strange man checks the chocks, puts the chainsaw away, gestures for the dog to hop onto the small trailer, and then mounts the bike.

  “Are you going to call for help?” I ask, getting closer with Wally.

  “Is there a signal at the campsite?” Wally asks.

  “No.” He shuts his visor and starts the engine.

  “Wait,” I say, worried, hoping to come up with a plan before he leaves.

  He's already not listening, speeding off into the darkness.

  “He’s gone after JJ tried to turn him into a chainsaw killer,” Wally jokes, climbing into the car.

  “It was an accident! I was just trying to help.” I sit down, frustrated, not having much I can do to avoid a mess of the interior. But a nervous laugh takes over me. “Do you think he really left us here? Should we look for help?”

  “Let’s wait for the storm to pass. We can eat in the meantime,” Ella says.

  “I’d say we should take off the wet clothes, but if you need to go out again, at least you'll still have them, and it’s not that cold,” Wally suggests.

  Zoe tries to help by offering one of her snacks, but she stops before giving it to her dad. “You’re dirty, and now you’re making everything dirty,” she complains, staring at his hand. He responds by opening his mouth and smiling, and she laughs as she puts the snack in his mouth.

  “Here,” Ella hands us some wet wipes.

  Used to the wet pants and already feeling comfortable after getting rid of my dirty, heavy shirt, I’m almost falling asleep when the man returns.

  He quickly dismounts the bike, heading into the forest with a box in hand, as we get out of the car.

  Shortly after, he comes back holding a steel rope with a hook. Wally points to a spot in front of the car.

  In a few seconds, the car is freed, resting on a trail of logs.

  But the man isn't done yet. He returns carrying more tools. Wally asks the two women to get out of the car, seating them on a log under the umbrella.

  The man lifts the car with a jack and crawls underneath, holding only a roll of duct tape. In a flash, he emerges, observing the work from a distance.

  With his back covered in mud, he opens the hood and empties a oil bottle into the engine.

  He approaches the driver's side, and Wally gets in the car, anticipating what the stranger is thinking.

  “Start it,” the man orders, focused. The engine sputters slightly.

  The man crouches, shining a light under the car, then checks the engine.

  After minutes of uncomfortable silence, as I follow the stranger around the car, he stops beside the driver.

  “Slowly speed up,” the stranger says. The man then nods, the first genuine hint of a smile I’ve seen on his face, hidden behind the helmet. “Keep it running.”

  He quickly gathers his things, lowers the car, mounts the bike, and glares at us.

  “JJ, get in. We need to go,” Wally tells me from the driver’s seat, making me feel like the only fool, standing there watching the strange man work while everyone else understood what he wanted.

  The car finally finishes the climb, and the bike honks, signaling us to follow.

  I’m not sure I want to follow this guy anywhere, but despite being so strange and rude, he helped us. And sometimes, the people you trust the least end up being the ones who help you move forward. But that doesn’t change the fact that I don’t trust him, and he hates me.

  Regardless of what I want, there’s no turning back on this narrow one-way dirt road.

  We only have one option: move forward.