No Way Back
The dark sky glitters with stars, the bright moon my only light. My breath fogs white as I move. I try to be quiet, but the forest floor crunches beneath my feet, loud in the hush. Even the animals fall silent as I push deeper.
Engines roar where I came from.
I run.
Branches rake my arms. My lungs burn, my throat raw with every breath. The backpack slams against my spine like it’s trying to drag me down—but I can’t stop. If I stop, they’ll catch me.
Run straight, Diego’s voice echoes in my head. Don’t stop until you reach the town. Keep west.
He showed me the city. We didn’t know then what we were to each other—only that trusting him might get me killed.
I’m not just some tourist with bad luck. I came to Mexico to see where my family began—never imagining they were still looking for me.
I found a man in a hacienda with heavy eyes and a carved cane—my grandfather, he said. Blood. Family.
The grip that bruised my cheek didn’t feel like family.
“Elizabeth!”
A man’s voice slices through the trees. Closer now.
Fear kicks my legs into overdrive—a clumsy sprint through brambles and thick grass. I burst out of the forest into an open field wrapped in fog, my chest heaving as I try to drag in air.
For a heartbeat, I see home instead—Mom in the kitchen, Dad’s tired smile, my brothers arguing over the TV.
That world feels impossibly far away.
Nate’s face slams into my thoughts—tied to a chair, blindfolded, chest heaving. My best friend, dragged into this because of me.
Guilt digs deeper than the thorns tearing my skin. My vision blurs; I swipe at my eyes.
No.
I won’t let it end here.
I run—but the ground dips. My foot skids on wet rock and the world tilts. I hit hard, tumbling—mud in my mouth, stones tearing skin, branches whipping my face. I claw at the earth until a stubborn bush catches my hoodie and wrenches me to a bone-jarring stop.
The air punches out of my lungs. My ribs ache. My ankle throbs. Fog presses close, thick and damp, stealing sound.
“Get up,” I whisper, because if I don’t say it, I won’t move.
I stagger forward on a limp—and then I see it.
Light.
Not moonlight. A pale-blue glow bleeding through the fog, too steady to be a star, too wrong to be a lantern.
It hums—low and constant. Static threaded with a whisper just out of reach.
Shelter. A trap. I don’t care.
The glow comes from a shed half-swallowed by weeds. Weathered wood. Cracked seams. Blue light leaking through like it’s alive.
Every instinct screams don’t.
My hand shakes as I press my palm to the door.
The blue light flares—bright enough to turn the fog electric—then snaps out.
Darkness crashes down.
I step inside. The floorboards creak beneath my feet. The air smells of rot and dust, my breath fogging white and fast. Beneath me, the floor pulses faintly, blue light seeping up through the cracks like the heartbeat of something buried deep. The hum deepens, vibrating up through my bones.
“What the hell—”
The ground drops away.
I plunge through open air, a scream tearing out of me. Wind rips at my clothes, then thickens—like I’ve fallen into invisible water. Pressure builds. Static crawls over my skin.
No air. No sound.
My mother’s face flashes—wet-eyed and terrified.
Nate’s voice, distant, calling my name.
Home—warm, safe, gone.
I reach—
And the breath I’ve been clinging to rips free.
The world goes black.
