"Argos!"
I yelled at my elkhound-husky mix as I sprinted across the familiar ground. Dangling thorns tore at my clothes − a pair of grass-stained jeans and a worn gray sweater. The August heat made it too hot to wear fall clothes, but the durable cloth received most of the forest's abuse as I dashed through the trees.
My dad's land − the small patch of woods behind our house − was my home. Among the acres hid a long river, patches of old trees, remnants of a hiking trail, and a creek bed that curled throughout the land. I was in charge of checking on the land when my dad was out of the Topeka Region, which was more often than not, and I had learned where everything was when I was a child.
Spring was the best season − when everything smelled of moss, alive and wet. But it was August. The muggy air sucked all the life out of the plants, leaving them dry, disheveled, and dead. Today, the forest smelled of burnt grass and dried mud. Among the pivots, the creek bed, and the broken logs, I followed the trail, and my dependable dog ran in front of me. He explored the ground as if it were new every time.
Argos' coarse, black coat bobbed through the oak trees, encouraging our twilight run. As the sun lowered in the sky, the forest swayed, barely cooling the summer air, and I relaxed, trying to breathe easier.
"Come on, boy," I shouted, throwing a steel blade into a tree.
The trunk's bark split as Argos' woof echoed around me. He barked every time I hit my target, and I laughed as I pulled a heavier blade out before continuing my sprint.
Slash. Stab. Shoot.
My father's three ways to use a knife repeated like a mantra as I assessed which tree to practice my aim on next.
Release the blade horizontally when you throw it.
The rotting wood split on impact, and I leapt up, cheering for Argos to congratulate me with a bark, but he didn't. He was silent. I dug my heels into the ground.
Coming to a complete stop, I held my breath, trying to keep myself from gasping and making a single noise. Everything around me became louder. Wind rushed through the shriveled leaves, small animals scurried through the nearby brush, and my heart thundered with the sudden gust of oxygen. The low growl of my dog was louder than any bark he expelled, and I reached up to grab my last knife. Argos continued to growl as I slinked forward through the weeds, clutching the grip and listening.
Plants scratched at my heated face, but my entire body became still, practiced, controlled. From the brush, I watched as Argos lowered to the ground, his back fur rising, his canines bared. His keen brown eyes locked on his prey: a tall boy with broad shoulders and frayed blond hair that hung in his eyes. A streak of dried mud caked his left cheek, his black clothes in tatters. He could've been living in the forest for days, but he didn't seem bothered by his disheveled appearance. He seemed comfortable with it, like the forest had grown into him, and he definitely wasn't afraid to attack my dog in order to survive. As Argos shifted forward, ready to tackle the stranger, the boy bent his knees and raised his hands, prepared to take him on.
"Down!" I shouted, hurdling out of the trees just in time. My dog lunged, only to dig his paws into the dirt. He obeyed. But in saving him I had exposed myself.
Thunder rolled across the clouds as the intruder's eyes locked onto mine. His chapped lips parted as if he was going to speak, but Argos barked a warning, and the boy stepped back. Even then, his gaze remained on me, his stare as green as the forest.
"Heel," I commanded, and Argos walked to my side before sitting down.
The boy's eyebrows rose, a light dancing in his eyes. "Oh, good. The demon has an owner." His voice was rough, as if he hadn't spoken in days and, though his tone was sarcastically carefree, his stare intensified, shadowed by the approaching storm. I recognized the stillness of his expression as a predatory look, the type of expression an animal has when preparing an attack.
I raised my knife; the blade flashed. "What're you doing here?"
His mossy eyes focused on my weapon. "Don't you think the dog is a big enough weapon?"
"He's trained to attack."
His chin lifted. "Are you, too?"
I tensed. He wasn't afraid of my knife, dog, or me. The muggy air suddenly felt suffocating. Sweat rose to my skin. My heart pounded. My curly hair scratched the nape of my neck. I tightened my grip on my knife and held my ground with Argos at my feet.
"Who are you?" I demanded an answer.
The stranger simply stared, his lips pressed together in a thin, white line. We remained frozen, neither of us willing to move first, except for Argos. My dog stepped forward, growling.
"Heel, Argos," I repeated, keeping my eyes on the stranger. If he wouldn't look away, I wouldn't either. In fact, I'd look harder. Take in every detail. Remember everything.
First, my attention landed on the thin, red scrape curling down his bicep to his forearm where his shirt ripped. Then I noticed his hands. He kept one on the strap of his backpack while his other pressed a piece of paper into his palm. A black watch wrapped around his wrist. When I looked back to his face, his eyes grew shadows beneath them. He couldn't have been much older than me, but he looked at me as if I were a naïve child.
He waited a moment before he spoke, "So, you like the Odyssey, then?" he referred to my dog's name.
I ignored him.
He shrugged, then gestured to my knife, "Do you even know how to use that?"
"Get out of here," I threatened, thinking of all the times my father had cautioned me about the woods. Tomo addicts would collect in our acres after curfew, which was why I was only supposed to check the woods during the day. This was my karma for checking them at dusk. "I'll call the police."
"I don't think you'll call the police." His laugh mimicked Argos' quiet growl. "Or don't you know those are illegal?"
My eyes flicked to my knife for only a moment. Throwing knives were illegal. I knew that. He knew that. Everyone knew that. Any kind of weaponry was illegal. The State deemed them too dangerous for the general population after the massacre. Though, my father had never listened. Using his governmental status to protect us from randomized searches, he welded knives in our basement and taught me how to fight with them properly.
The boy's arrogance infuriated me.
"Get off of my property," I said.
His eyes studied my face quickly, quietly, and undoubtedly efficiently, yet his expression was blank. "This is your property?" he asked. "You're sure?"
After a moment's hesitation, I offered a single nod. He waited, as if hoping I'd take it back, but I didn't. Eyes suddenly wide, he looked all around, pivoting to face every direction. Anxiety rose within me. A predator never turned their back on their prey, yet he did so effortlessly. My father taught me to always face someone with a weapon, but here he was – shifting away as if I didn't exist.
He glanced at the black face of his watch as he ran a finger over the screen to clean the dirt off. When his jaw locked, Argos barked, and the boy leapt back, so startled that I was sure he had forgotten we were standing right in front of him. He even dropped his paper.
When he leaned forward to grab it, Argos lunged toward him, snarling. Rage flashed behind the boy's glare. Before he could do anything, I snatched up the slip of paper and shoved it deep into my jeans pocket.
The stranger straightened up, his rage averting toward my pocket rather than my knife. Apparently, taking his piece of paper was more of a weapon.
I didn't say a word. The boy, on the other hand, opened his mouth to speak, only to have a car horn interrupt him. Argos' ears perked up as the sound of a car engine approached, ending near the edge of the forest − only six acres away. It honked once more.
The intruder leaned up as if his height allowed him to see over the trees. "Someone's here."
I kept my blade up. "I don't care."
He smirked. "You sure?"
"Sophia!" My name ripped through the trees as the sky continued to darken. Lightning shattered across the clouds. "Sophia! Argos!" I recognized my friend's voice immediately. Miles was here.
The stranger grinned, flashing his teeth. "Sophia?"
I glared back. "I can stop Argos, but I can't stop Miles."
His head tipped to the side. "Miles?"
Miles yelled again, "Where are you?"
"Over here," I screamed backward, keeping my eyes locked on the boy as I dropped my voice. "Get out of here, and don't come back," I ordered.
Instead of taking the moment to run, the boy glanced down at my pocket where I kept his paper. I tensed.
"Am I near the park?" he asked, quiet and quick. "That's where I meant to go." His shoulders slumped in defeat. "Really."
My heart lurched at his sudden change in demeanor, but I managed a nod toward the north, where the forest opened up to the only park Topeka still had.
"Don't come back," I whispered.
His expression softened. "Thank you," he said before disappearing into the forest as quickly as he had appeared. The place where he once stood was now empty, and it somehow seemed wrong, like a hundred-year-old tree had been cut down and removed without so much as an explanation.
Nearby, the trees shifted, but I wasn't sure if I was listening to the boy run or to Miles as he approached. A moment later Miles burst through the brush. My usually goofy friend was a mess. His mop of brown curls sprung into his widened eyes, and he wheezed from the run. His alarmed expression ruined any lasting comfort I maintained.
Something was wrong. Seriously wrong.
"What's going on?" I asked, my heart already pounding, the rain beginning to fall around us in thick droplets.
"It's Broden." He shoved a recognizable silver-faced watch into my hands. Blood stained the edge. "He's in the hospital."