The old lumber camp is nearly invisible in the fading light. Located not fifty yards from the spring, in a clearing overgrown with bushes, ferns, and skinny saplings that makes everything look blended together. Kind of a natural camouflage. I can barely make out a couple of long, low sheds slowly sinking into the ground. One of them has a caved-in roof. Nearby is a small, one-story cabin, roof intact.

The little cabin is not much bigger than a garden shed, but it can be shelter for the night. A place to hide from bears. Did I mention bears? My dad said steer clear of bears, if possible. Mostly a black bear will leave you alone, he said, but not always. Especially a mama bear with cubs. Very dangerous. So bears have been on my mind ever since the sun started setting. And when you’re thinking about bears, every clump of bushes looks like one, ready to charge.

I hurry across the clearing and get to the sagging front porch of the cabin just as darkness falls like a hot, steamy blanket. I can barely make out the front door, and expect to find it locked. Maybe I can skinny through a window? Or break in if necessary—this is an emergency, what with the wildfire coming to get me if the wind shifts. But when I thumb the latch, the door swings creakily inward.

“Anybody home?” I call into the darkness, not really expecting a reply. The air inside is hot and stale and smells of wood and pinesap. Sweat trickles down my forehead and stings my eyes. Sweat from the heat, but also from being afraid, spooked by the dark, and terrified the fire will catch up.

I feel along the wall beside the front door, hoping for a light switch. No luck. Doubtful the cabin has electricity. I sure didn’t see any power lines nearby. As I search for a light switch, something hard and solid bumps my wrist. It’s all I can do not to scream. Was that a bony hand?

My heart is slamming so hard I can barely breathe.

Don’t be a moron, Sam! Don’t panic. Keep it together. Use your brain. Find what bumped you and deal with it. Slowly I pass my fingers along the wall and touch the thing that nearly scared me to death.

A flashlight hanging from a thin rope, just inside the door.

I press the button, expecting the batteries to be long dead. But to my amazement, a beam of light nearly blinds me.

I’ve never been so grateful for such a small thing. A simple flashlight. “Thank you,” I say, to whoever was thoughtful enough to leave it hanging by the door. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

The warm beam of the flashlight lights up a small, tidy interior. A potbellied cast-iron woodstove with a tin chimney going up through the roof. A little square table with two spindly chairs. A narrow bunk. A stack of wooden crates piled up against the back wall. And dust, lots of dust.

I check out the top crate. Plastic gallon jugs of supermarket water. The labels haven’t faded or peeled, so they can’t be that old. The lumber camp looks abandoned, like the logging is long over, but it seems like someone has visited this cabin recently. Which explains the flashlight, the fresh jugs of water.

A supply of water is good—no, it’s great, it’s amazing—but I’m suddenly so exhausted I can barely keep my eyes open. I head for the narrow bunk. Thin mattress, no sheets, but I’m grateful to have a bed.

Doesn’t matter that the cabin is stifling hot, and smells old and musty, but at least it doesn’t stink of smoke. A safe place to sleep seems like a treasure I couldn’t imagine when the flames were chasing me from tree to tree. As soon as the sun rises, I intend to keep running, putting distance between me and the fire. But tonight I need to get some rest.

I lie in the dark, wishing I were home. My mom and I live in Wells, Maine. Not in the beachy, touristy part, but out in the woods by the sandpits. Which is fine. I like it out there. At night you can hear the coyotes yipping under the power lines. Yipping and howling and singing to each other. Kind of scary if you never heard it before, but once you know, it’s like listening to a family conversation. Dad, Mom, and the kids.

I miss it, miss it, miss it.

I fall asleep worrying about my mother. Did the people at the clinic tell her I was missing? Will she stay in the program? Or will she quit and try to find me on her own?

I can hear myself begging her: Twenty-eight days, Mom, that’s all you have to do. Four weeks and then you’ll be free. No more pills. Your mind will be clear. I’ll go to summer camp, and you’ll go to rehab. They’ll help you, Mom, I promise. Stay in the program, please?

No more pills, no more pills, no more pills. Pray for no more pills.

I sleep like the dead.