Lena adjusted the straps of her backpack, trying not to trip over another root. Sweat slid down her spine, her thighs ached, and her overpriced hiking boots already had mud crusted into the seams. The survival retreat brochure made this look cute—bonfires, fresh air, healing your inner child.
They didn’t mention the gruff mountain man who would be watching your every move like a drill sergeant.
Grant.
Her survival instructor.
He was tall, quiet, carved from stone, and about as friendly as a rattlesnake. On day one, he had stared her down and told her she wouldn’t last the weekend.
“You cry once,” he said, “and I send you back down the mountain.”
She didn’t cry. But she did fall into a stream, forget how to use a flint striker, and spill her only dry socks into the firepit. Now it was
