CHAPTER 50 – Still Moving Forward

  The group reached a long, sloping descent by mid?morning—a stretch of rocky switchbacks shaded by tall hemlocks. Fallen needles softened the trail in some places, but other parts were slick with damp moss and hidden roots. It wasn’t dangerous, but it demanded attention.

  StillMoving—Fleta—kept her eyes on the ground, placing her steps carefully. Her legs felt steady today, the good kind of tired that came from miles and nothing else.

  Ahead, Jess and Marco argued about whether squirrels could be trained to fetch snacks. Behind them, SleepisforT hummed an off?key melody. SkyWaker narrated a fictional epic between Sir Quacksworth and an unusually shaped rock.

  Riley, as always, kept a watchful eye on the group.

  They rounded a bend—and that’s when they saw her.

  A hiker sat on the side of the trail, backpack leaning against a boulder, head buried in her hands. She looked older than Fleta—maybe mid?twenties—with her dark hair pulled into a messy braid and her rain jacket half?unzipped. One trekking pole lay on the ground beside her. The other leaned crookedly against her knee.

  When she looked up, her eyes were red.

  Jess slowed first. Riley immediately stepped into calm?leader mode.

  “Hey there,” Riley said gently. “You doing alright?”

  The woman shook her head quickly. “I—I think I twisted my ankle. It hurts to put weight on it. And I’m just… I’m really frustrated. I was doing so well until I wasn’t.”

  Riley crouched down, careful not to touch her without permission. “May I look?”

  The woman nodded.

  While Riley examined her ankle, Jess offered her water. Marco retrieved the fallen trekking pole. SleepisforT sat beside her quietly, giving company without crowding.

  Fleta stood a few feet back, her heart beating faster—not from fear, but from recognition.

  That tightness in the woman’s voice. That trembling breath. That look like the world had tilted too fast and she was struggling to keep balance.

  Fleta knew that feeling. Deeply.

  SkyWaker placed Sir Quacksworth gently in the hiker’s lap. “He offers moral support.”

  The woman let out a watery laugh. “Thanks. I… think I needed that.”

  Riley looked up. “It’s a mild sprain. You’re going to be okay, but you probably shouldn’t hike on it for a bit.”

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  The woman closed her eyes. “I’m only a few miles from Lance Creek. I thought I could make it. Now I feel stupid.”

  “You’re not stupid,” Riley said immediately. “You’re injured. That happens.”

  Marco nodded. “I tripped over a flat rock yesterday. It happens to all skill levels.”

  SleepisforT added, “I once sprained my ankle stepping off a curb. Literally a curb.”

  But the woman still looked lost—like her breath wouldn’t settle.

  And Fleta recognized that too.

  So she stepped forward.

  “Can I sit with you for a sec?” she asked softly.

  The woman blinked. “Um… sure.”

  Fleta lowered herself onto the ground beside her, knees brushing needles and dirt.

  “It’s okay to be upset,” Fleta said quietly. “Even if the injury isn’t big. Even if other people say it’s normal. It still… feels big. Inside.”

  The woman studied her. “Yeah. It does.”

  “I had a bad day yesterday,” Fleta admitted. “Everything felt heavy. My friends helped me slow down.”

  The woman swallowed. “You’re thirteen, right?”

  Fleta nodded. “Yeah.”

  “And you’re telling me how to deal with trail stuff?”

  Fleta hesitated. “Does that bother you?”

  The woman shook her head quickly. “No. It… helps. Actually.”

  Fleta let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding.

  “You’re allowed to feel how you feel,” she said. “Being hurt doesn’t make you weak. And needing help doesn’t make you a bad hiker.”

  The woman’s eyes filled again—so fast it startled her.

  “Thank you,” she whispered. “I didn’t realize how much I needed someone to say that.”

  Riley nodded approvingly. “StillMoving’s got a good way with words.”

  Fleta felt warmth bloom in her chest.

  Riley continued, “Let’s do this. SleepisforT and I will lighten your pack. Marco and Jess can help guide your steps. We’ll move slow. We’ll get you as far as the next campsite.”

  SkyWaker raised a dramatic fist. “THE FELLOWSHIP SHALL NOT LEAVE A HIKER BEHIND!”

  Sir Quacksworth bobbled in agreement.

  The woman let out a shaky laugh. “I’m really lucky you guys came along.”

  Fleta helped her stand. The woman leaned on her trekking poles, testing her weight gently. It hurt, but she could walk with support.

  “You ready?” Riley asked.

  The woman nodded. “Ready.”

  They walked together—slow, careful, steady. The pace wasn’t fast.

  But it was enough.

  And as the sunlight filtered through the leaves, warming the trail in soft gold, Fleta realized something she had never felt so strongly:

  She wasn’t just being helped anymore.

  She was helping.

  Playing a part. Carrying a moment for someone else the way others had carried moments for her.

  And it didn’t feel heavy.

  It felt like healing.

  Like moving forward.

  Like becoming.

  As they helped guide the woman down the trail, Fleta whispered her trail name to herself—

  “StillMoving.”

  And for the first time, she understood:

  It wasn’t just about surviving anymore.

  It was about helping others move, too.

  One careful, steady, hopeful step at a time.