It was Drew's idea, like it was Drew's idea, like it usually was when we ended up doing something dumb but well-intentioned.

He called me after eight months of silence, no texts, no memes, not even a Merry Christmas,

just a one-line message at 204 in the morning.

You still hike? I didn't respond right away.

Truth was, I hadn't hit a trail in over a year. Work, a breakup, and the kind of creeping

exhaustion that settles in your bones had kept me firmly planted indoors. But something about

the timing, about the way Drew asked, made me say yes without even asking where.

We met up in Asheville three days later. He looked, rough, pale, gaunt around the eyes,

like he hadn't slept properly in weeks. But when I asked about it, he shrugged it off, said he just needed to get out of the city,

clear his head, breathe real air again, and I didn't push because, frankly, I needed the same.

Drew had picked the spot, an isolated stretch of the Appalachian Trail near the Tennessee-North

Carolina border.

We'd hike for four days,

circle back using a fire road, and crash in the truck. No service, no noise, just miles of nothing.

It sounded perfect. I should have asked him why he picked that spot. Should have asked a lot of things,

really. We parked his rust-bitten Tacoma on an overgrown shoulder near an old mile marker.

The trailhead wasn't labeled on any map I had.

Drew just said, trust me, it connects in, and pointed uphill to a faded break in the trees.

The path was narrow, overgrown in places, and I could feel the wetness of the

moss through the sides of my boots within the first 20 minutes. The air was heavy, damp,

like the woods had just finished raining even though the sky was clear. It smelled old,

earthy, but not the good kind. More like mildew and forgotten things. Every step

...