There was a badge clipped to his belt, dulled by dirt but unmistakable. Deputy Mark Ellery.
Silas swallowed hard, already unlocking his phone. “I’m calling,” he said, and the words sounded older than he felt.
Juniper didn’t argue; she shrugged off her sweatshirt and pressed it hard against the worst of the bleeding, the fabric darkening almost immediately, her arms straining with the effort to maintain pressure as panic tried to climb up her spine and take over her hands.
When the dispatcher answered, Silas forced his voice not to crack, giving directions as precisely as he could, describing the bend near the old quarry marker, the split birch trunk, the way the trail dipped slightly before the clearing, and although his words felt clumsy he kept talking because silence felt more dangerous than mistakes.
Juniper leaned closer to the deputy’s face, noticing the way his eyes fluttered beneath half-closed lids, and then, unexpectedly, his fingers twitched and brushed against her sleeve.
