Page 86 of Unmanageable

“I understand the physical relationship with a comfortable couch,” I shoot back. “If I go into the wilderness, I will die. A squirrel will look at me funny and my brain will simply shut down. Choose something else. A movie. A very safe, indoor movie with reclining seats.”

“We’re going on a hike,” he says.

He stands up, walking over to where I’m sitting, towering over the chair until I have to tilt my head all the way back to look at him.

“Come on, Scottie. It’s just a trail. A walk through the woods. I’ll carry the water. I’ll protect you from the squirrels.”

“I don’t have the footwear for this, O’Connell,” I argue. “My sneakers aren’t meant for hiking. They’re meant for style. I will snap my ankles within forty yards of the trailhead.”

Cash doesn’t even hesitate. He walks over to his luggage, flips open a smaller duffel bag, and pulls out a pair of thick, gray woolen hockey socks and an extra pair of cross-trainers he uses for off-ice warm ups.

He drops them at my feet.

“Wear these,” he says. “They’ll be huge on you, but if we tie the laces tight enough, you won’t sink into the mud. No excuses.”

I look at the giant sneakers, then up at his ridiculous, handsome face.

He looks so genuinely excited, so completely free of the dark cloud that has been hanging over his head since his injury in January.

I let out a long, dramatic groan, burying my face in my hands. “If a bear eats me, my ghost is going to sue your estate for every single dollar of your signing bonus.”

“Deal,” Cash laughs. “Be downstairs at seven AM. And bring a jacket.”

***

The drive up north into the mountains takes over an hour, and for the first forty-five minutes, I am a model of silent, resentful protest.

I sit in the passenger seat of our vintage van, wearing Cash’s giant gray sneakers—which make my feet look like two oversized cinder blocks—and a black sweatshirt that I stole from his bag.

The sun is coming up over the dense, rolling ridges, painting the sky in sharp, blinding streaks of pink and orange.

It looks beautiful, but I refuse to acknowledge it out of principle.

“You’re missing the scenery.”

“The scenery is an aggressive display of incline that my lungs are not prepared for,” I mutter, staring straight ahead at the upright, flat dashboard. “Why is everything so high up? Why can’t nature happen at sea level?”

“Because then it wouldn’t be a challenge.”

We drive for another ten minutes, moving deeper into the thick forest until the highway noise fades away, replaced by the crunch of gravel under our tires. The trees are massive out here, towering over the van like green walls, blocking out most of the morning sun.

It’s quiet.

A heavy, isolated kind of quiet that makes the back of my neck prickle.

Cash pulls the van into a small, deserted dirt turnout marked by a weathered metal sign that reads: CHATTAHOOCHEE GAP LOOP - TRAILHEAD.

There are no other cars here. No park ranger station. Just a narrow gap in the dense trees that disappears into the shadows of the ridge.

“We’re the first ones here,” Cash says, sounding incredibly pleased with himself as he kills the ignition. The van’s engine settles into a metallic tick behind us. He hops out of the van, the crisp mountain air rushing into the cabin through his door.

I step out onto the dirt, my giant sneakers sinking slightly into the soft earth covering the ground. I shiver, crossing my arms, watching Cash go to the back of the van to grab a single backpack. He throws a couple of water bottles inside, a bag of trail mix, and his phone.

“Alright,” he says. He looks down at my feet, letting out a soft chuckle. “How are the shoes holding up, Bigfoot?”

“They have no traction, Cash. I feel like I’m walking on two loaves of sourdough bread.”

“You’ll be fine.”