Twenty years ago, I found a little boy sobbing under a tree in a lightning storm and got him to safety. Yesterday, during a snowstorm, a tall man knocked on my door, said my name, and handed me a thick envelope, then asked if I was ready to tell the truth.I used to live in the mountains.Not literally. But close.Every weekend. Every vacation day. Every long Friday.Boots by the door. Trail maps on the fridge. Dirt in my car.The mountains made me feel brave.Then one storm changed everything.Twenty years ago, I was hiking alone on a ridge.My name is Claire.Back then, my knees didn’t complain.The sky was blue.

Then it flipped. Wind hit like a slap.Branches snapped.Thunder rolled in fast and low.I muttered, “Nope.”I turned toward my valley camp.Rain came hard. Sideways. Cold.Lightning flashed so close my teeth buzzed.I ran.And then I heard it.A sound that didn’t belong.I yanked off my raincoat and wrapped it around him.His whole body jolted like the warmth hurt.I leaned in close.”Don’t be afraid,” I said. “I’ll protect you.”Getting him to my camp was ugly.Mud. Wind. Dusk.He slipped. I caught him.”Hold my hand,” I ordered.He grabbed on like I was a rope over a cliff.”Where’s your group?” I shouted.