“Everything in this forest walks a straight line when it has a purpose, Henry,” his father had murmured, his eyes scanning the tree line. “An animal moving to water. A man moving toward home. You only lose your way when you forget exactly where you’re going.”
That simple memory acted as a brilliant splinter of light piercing through the overwhelming darkness in Henry’s mind. It was a piece of his father he still carried with him, an internal compass firmly embedded not in his pocket, but directly in his heart. The forest in front of him was no longer just a mindless monster. It was an environment his father had deeply understood. It was a place governed by natural rules, a place a person could successfully navigate if they held onto a singular purpose.
His purpose immediately stirred in his arms. A soft, warm sigh escaped Violet’s lips as she shifted comfortably in her sleep, burrowing her face deeper into his thin chest.
Henry looked down at her features. She looked so incredibly peaceful, so utterly, profoundly trusting. To her, the entire world was currently contained within his two arms. She didn’t know they had just been permanently abandoned. She didn’t know that the dropping temperature was a silent killer, or that the woods stretching out before them were virtually endless. She only knew the familiar warmth of his embrace and the steady, reassuring thud of his heartbeat.
That simple, absolute faith acted as a raging fire that quickly burned away the cold, creeping tendrils of his despair. A brand new feeling, something hard and dangerously sharp, rose up to replace the paralyzing terror. It was a grim, immovable resolve.
Bernadette wanted them to simply disappear into the brush. The forest fully expected them to lay down and perish. He decided right then and there that he would not give either of them the satisfaction. He would walk a perfectly straight line. He would carry his sister until his legs shattered beneath him. He would find this mythical town, even if it was the absolute last thing he ever did on this earth.
His young mind shifted gears, racing to formulate a rudimentary plan out of the meager scraps of survival knowledge he possessed. Bernadette’s cruel parting words—walk straight—were simultaneously a curse and a vital command. He possessed no compass, so he would have to rely on the sky. He would keep the rising morning sun firmly positioned over his left shoulder as it began its slow, agonizing climb into the gray sky. That rudimentary navigation would keep him moving in a generally eastward direction.
As for supplies, his inventory was bleak. He had absolutely nothing. No food, no canteen of water, no map. He possessed only the thin, heavily worn clothes clinging to his back, the threadbare wool blanket currently wrapped around Violet, and the small wooden whittling knife concealed in his trouser pocket. It felt like a pathetic, laughable arsenal to pit against the vast Wisconsin wilderness, but it was all he had, and he had to make it work.
The most immediate logistical problem was basic movement. He could not physically carry Violet in his arms indefinitely; his biceps were already beginning to burn. He desperately needed both of his hands free to aggressively push through thick branches and to catch his balance on the treacherous, uneven ground. He needed to secure her to his back.
With fumbling, cold-stiffened fingers that barely responded to his commands, he set to work. He couldn’t risk placing Violet down on the frozen, heat-stealing earth, even for a moment. So, he awkwardly dropped to one knee, carefully balancing her weight across his thigh. Moving swiftly, he unbuttoned his own heavily worn coat. He shrugged it off his shoulders, instantly feeling the vicious bite of the wind through his thin cotton shirt, and wrapped the coat tightly around her small, blanketed form, providing her with a crucial extra layer against the elements.
Then, recalling the specific, methodical way his father used to secure heavy loads of cut timber onto a sled, Henry gripped the bottom hem of his own shirt. He pulled hard, tearing a long, thick strip of fabric free. It was a poor, flimsy substitute for a proper leather strap, but it was the only option available. He carefully shifted Violet around onto his back, positioning her so that her small head rested securely in the crook of his neck. Painstakingly, he worked the torn strip of cloth under her bottom, pulled the ends up over his own shoulders, and tied them off in a tight, mercilessly firm knot directly across his sternum.
He stood up slowly, testing the new center of gravity. She was heavy. It was a physical burden that he knew would only grow exponentially more immense with every single step he took. But she was secure. He wouldn’t drop her.
He was as ready as he was ever going to be. There were no further preparations a ten-year-old boy could make.
Henry turned his back on the empty logging road, offering a silent, final farewell to the cruel world that had so easily cast him out. Directly before him, the sprawling forest waited, a towering wall of dark wood and deep, terrifying silence. He could feel Violet’s soft, rhythmic breath hitting the skin of his neck, a tiny, constant reminder of exactly what was at stake.
He pulled the thin collar of his torn shirt up against the biting wind, took one last, impossibly deep breath of the frigid autumn air, and stepped off the dirt road. The loud, brittle crunch of dry leaves and frozen pine needles breaking beneath his worn leather boots was the only sound left in the world. It was the distinct sound of a sacred promise being kept. It was the sound of the very first step on an entirely impossible journey.
Reaching out with a trembling hand, he violently shoved a low-hanging pine branch out of his way and allowed the shadows of the trees to swallow him whole.