I pause at the edge of it, hands buried in my pockets, but not for too long. If I stop moving, if I let the quiet settle, the doubt will come crawling back.
I pull my hood up and start down the trail toward the water, boots squelching through mud. Halfway there, the rain starts again, soft at first, then heavier, a steady curtain closing over the path ahead.
I keep walking.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Emily
The sun breaks through for the first time in days, turning raindrops on cedar branches into prisms.
I squint against the sudden brightness as I pick my way along the soggy perimeter trail, clipboard tucked under my arm, boots sinking ankle-deep in places where the ground has turned to a bog. Four days of relentless rain means the entire island needs inspecting, and I volunteered to check every drainage ditch just to get a little breather.
“Drainage ditch four, cleared,” I mutter, marking the box on my water-stained checklist. The paper curls at the corners from the lingering humidity, and ink bleeds at the edges of my notes.
The air carries a new freshness, the kind a storm leaves behind after scrubbing the island clean. Wetcedar and pine dominate, undercut by rich soil and the mineral tang of disturbed rock. Insects buzz in the renewed warmth, and birds call from branches still dripping with the night’s final shower.
I round a bend in the trail and pause to catch my breath. My boots must weigh twenty pounds each from the mud caked to their treads, and my shoulders ache from ducking under fallen branches. Sunlight dapples through the canopy in golden shafts across the forest floor.
If the day continues like this, we’ll be dried out by Monday and can get those kitchen lines hooked up.
A high-pitched squeal pierces the morning quiet, filled with delight, and my mood lifts for the first time all week. A deep, booming bark follows, and I peer toward the sound, which comes from a clearing near Cabin One.
Curiosity pulls me forward through a patch of undergrowth. The trail here curves away from the clearing, but a game path offers a shortcut. I step through ferns heavy with rainwater, their fronds releasing cold droplets that slide down my neck when I brush against them.
The sound comes again, a child’s pure joy mingling with canine excitement. As I push through the last of the foliage, the clearing opensbefore me in a sweep of mud and puddles glinting in the sunlight.
Quinn stands in the center of an enormous puddle, her pink rain boots submerged to the ankles, arms spread wide. Her jacket, a size too large and rolled at the cuffs, hangs open despite the morning chill. Sprinkles, her Newfoundland, bounds through the water, his black coat soaked and glistening.
The moment catches me off guard, and my arm drops to my side, clipboard forgotten. Quinn’s face shines with the uncomplicated happiness of a child who has discovered a perfect playground in the storm’s debris. She spins in a circle, arms extended, head tipped back to catch the sunlight on her cheeks.
Sprinkles spots me first, and his ears perk before he changes course mid-splash, bounding toward me with the unstoppable momentum of an overgrown puppy.
The motion catches Quinn’s attention. She turns, spots me among the trees, and shrieks with delight.
“Emily!” She launches herself after her dog, puddle water spraying from her boots.
I brace as she collides with my legs, arms wrapping around my thighs with surprisingstrength. The impact threatens to knock me backward, and I grab a nearby branch to steady myself. Wet mud from her sleeves smears across my work pants, and cold water seeps through to my skin.
“You came to play with us!” Quinn says, the words a little nasal from her recent cold. She tilts her face up, raindrops clinging to her eyelashes, cheeks flushed pink, though it seeems to be with cold and excitement, not from illness.
“I was checking the trails.” I tap my clipboard. “But I heard you having fun. Shouldn’t you still be resting from being sick?”
Quinn’s reply is cut short by Sprinkles, who circles us once, then skids to a halt less than a foot away. His entire body shakes, starting at his nose and rippling down to his tail, sending a spray of water over us both.
“Sprinkles!” Quinn squeals, more delighted than reproachful, burying her face against my hip to shield herself from the worst of it.
Cold droplets pelt my face and neck, and a startled laugh escapes me. Quinn peeks up at the sound.
“He does that every time.” She gives my leg a muddy pat. “I think he likes the way the water splashes.”
Footsteps approach from the trail, and Leif appears, jogging toward us. His blue button-down clings to his broad shoulders, darkened in patches where the trees have dripped on him. His mauve-tinted hair is plastered to his forehead in damp strands, and his cheeks flush from the exertion.
“Quinn! You shouldn’t splash other people with mud,” he scolds, closing the distance between us. “I’m so sorry about this, Emily.”
He reaches us, out of breath, and I’m caught off guard by the way water beads on his eyelashes, catching the sunlight when he blinks.
“Don’t be,” I reply, surprising myself with the warmth in my tone. “After this week, I think we all need to play in the puddles.”