For man, as for flower and beast and bird, the supreme triumph is to be most vividly, most perfectly alive.

D. H. Lawrence

Survival can be summed up in three words - never give up. That's the heart of it really. Just keep trying.

Bear Grylls

Ryan Smithers stretched and rolled over, the hardwood planks felt strange under his back. Different from the deck of the plane he'd spent the last nights on. He propped himself up and glanced towards the fire. It had burned down over the night, leaving nothing but ash. Ryan reached his hand out, over the grey powder.

The remains were still warm. If he poked around with a branch, he'd probably find a live ember or two. It wasn't necessary though, he decided. The cabin felt warm enough.

Ryan turned his attention to Mister Burns.

The old man lay curled on his side in a fetal position, the blankets wrapped tightly around him, breathing softly. He seemed asleep, but as Ryan stood up he shifted slightly.

"I know you're awake," Ryan said. He knelt by their supplies and began packing.

"Is it that self-evident?" Burns asked tiredly.

Ryan folded his blankets and tucked tied them in a roll. "It is when I've been listening to your breath for the past three days, while you've been unconscious."

"Apothegmatic as always, Ryan," Burns muttered. He tried to push himself up with is good arm, and failed, landing on his left side. He drew in his breath sharply, wincing. "Blast this inadequate appendage," he hissed. Burns flopped onto his back and regarded Ryan dolefully.

He so looked pitiful lying there. Ryan tried to offer a reassuring smile. He slid one hand under Burns' good arm, and helped the old man to a sitting position. Burns pushed the blankets off his lap. He said nothing, but he didn't need to. Ryan could read the thoughts that passed across his face.

"You're welcome."

Burns humphed, but there was a faint twitch at the edge of his mouth.

"I'm going outside," Ryan announced. "I want to get a feel for the lay of the land. I thought I saw what might be a boat under a tarp. With luck, it'll still be usable. Don't go anywhere."

Burns raised his eyebrows. "Do you truly think I'd be in such a condition to venture abroad of my own volition?"

Ryan shrugged. "Right now, I'm not sure what you think you might be able to do. So, yes; no. Either way, here are some biscuits, and I'll get some water too. Those jars there look clean enough," he noted, glancing up to the shelves.

Burns said nothing. Merely sat, hunched up around his injured arm, watching Ryan with stoic blue eyes.

...

The shape under the rotted tarp was indeed a boat; an old, aluminum row boat. Ryan pulled the crumbling plastic pack from the hull and inspected the craft. Once, it looked like it had been painted a dark brown, possibly camouflage tones. Now, most of the paint had chipped and peeled, revealing the oxidized grey aluminum body. The boat was small, much smaller than he'd thought. Maybe ten feet long; maybe.

Ryan inspected the scuffed and dented hull.

The boat had clearly seen some hard use in its time. The edges of the keel were scraped, probably from hitting rocks of being dragged over them. Age, and being left outside for an indeterminate number of years had done the small boat no favors either.

Ryan bent down and slid his fingers under the gunwale, aware of the ragged metal edge. He braced his feet, lifting with his legs, and flipped the boat upright.

The boat looked no better from this side, he concluded. There were two pitted and worn aluminum seats that were once designed as floatation devices, that might not be watertight now. A pair of wooden oars were wedged beneath them. He hauled the oars out, and inspected them.

Like everything else, they were definitely the worse for wear. They'd work though. The oarlocks seemed solid enough. A moldy and frayed roped was tied in the bow. It was splintery, brittle, and quickly disintegrated in Ryan's hands.

He wiped his palms on his increasingly rough jeans, and surveyed the scene.

It wouldn't be hard for him to drag the boat the river. No harder than anything else he'd tackled so far. If it proved seaworthy, that would be unquestionably better than hiking with Burns through the squelching ground of this floodplain.

Would Burns even want to walk, Ryan wondered. And even if he did, would he be capable of it? Ryan tried to imagine lashing an unwilling Monty Burns to the stretcher and dragging him, hissing and spitting like an angry cat through the wilderness. The cartoon-like image his mind provided made him laugh.

"I could do it," Ryan chuckled, "but it wouldn't be pretty."

Hopefully, whatever they decided, Burns would agree and come quietly.

Ryan wrapped his fingers around the handle on the bow of the boat, and braced his heels in the mud. Scrabbling for purchase against the slick ground, he surged back, dragging the boat as he went. It was slow going, and sweat soon dotted his brow, but he found himself enjoying the work. At least it was productive. It felt like he was getting somewhere. With every inch that he hauled the boat, he was that much closer to civilization.

As he worked, Ryan found his mind flitting back to his Burns. The man wasn't his father, but they did have a relationship after a sort. He was grateful that Monty was awake. More than he'd expected infact. He found he'd missed the old man's dry comments, the slight snarky tone Burns used when speaking with him. Ryan knew – they both knew – it was Burns' way of saying he cared.

Theirs was a companionship, slow to warm up, but strong once it did. At times, he and Monty seemed to have more in common than he did with his own father, Waylon. Perhaps it was more of an understanding, that they were both their own men, setting upon personal journeys. At times flying in the face of convention to be true to themselves.

It was, he reflected, more similarities than he had with his father.

Or, if not common ground directly, at least differences that blended well.

Ryan had left home after his mother's death, with no exact destination in mind. All he knew was that the world he thought he knew was gone, and it was time to go.

Burns had studied abroad in Europe, only to return to find the last family he knew dead. Monty Burns had buried his grandfather's remains by his own hand.

Ryan had held his mother's hand as she died.

There was a certain finality in both their lives, an unspoken understanding that comes with knowing if even one were to go back to a place, one could never return to the time that once was.

Ryan knew, as he lugged the boat towards the water, that he would never return to Philadelphia. At least not his version of it. The apartment he and his mother had shared was undoubtedly rented out by now. Even if he walked up those familiar steps to the landing and knocked on the door, it wouldn't be his mother answering. It would be some strange couple, friendly but confused by his presence.

In his mind's eye he imagined walking in, crossing the familiar threshold once again.

His heart wanted to believe it would be returning home.

Ryan's mind knew better.

Everything would be changed. The drapes, the potholder with a rooster on it, that annoying yet oddly endearing plastic cookie jar which played "Green Acres" whenever the lid was lifted? That was gone. Ryan knew that for a fact. He'd been the one to sell them.

Burns understood loss too.

The old man knew what it was like to lose the things that made a house into a home. Sometimes, after Waylon had gone to bed, Ryan would wander the halls of Burns Manor with the ancient patriarch, listening to the man's stories from a past he'd never again share.

It wasn't that Monty was unhappy. It wasn't that simple.

The problem was, as Monty had put it one night by the fire: you can return to a place, and know it will never be the same. For time and memories cast a veneer, and in the end, all we have to hold on to is the present, and what we think we once knew.

I understand, Ryan replied, looking into Burns' face. He didn't know how to explain it, but on some intrinsic level the old man's words made perfect sense.

Your father doesn't fully understand- Burns began, but Ryan cut him off.

-He's young, and though he's gone through? It's different. He's never been in that situation where he questioned whether he should even bother to live or die.

What would you know about that? Burns asked.

Ryan gave him a smile, the hollow sort that didn't reach his eyes. After my mother died, I only had plans to Santa Monica pier. Beyond that? Well, I was okay with saying goodbye. To everything.

Burns reached out a hand, brushing a black strand of hair away from Ryan's glasses. A gesture oddly kind. I, for one, am glad you didn't. And your father is unquestionably glad as well. Your life has value, young Ryan, even when you may forget it. Let me remind you, as your father has reminded me, there is so much more to life than the end.

"And that," Ryan grunted as he dragged the heavy rowboat into the swampy edge of the river, "Is why I'm not giving up now." His feet were in the water now, and he didn't care.

"Do you hear that?" he asked, raising his head defiantly to the blue sky. "I'm not going to die out here. I don't care what shit you decide to throw at me. I'm not giving up!"

He thumped his fists against his chest, listening to his voice echo across the wide river.

I'm not giving up!

"Damn right, I'm not. So you can just suck it, because we're going home!"

We're going home!

...

Ryan stood in the slow water just beyond the shoreline, watching the boat bob amongst the reeds. It wasn't filling up with water, a pleasant surprise. Ryan pushed the gunwale down, testing its resilience.

The small metal boat bobbed with stalwart integrity.

Ryan grinned ear to ear.
He pulled off his wet shoes, his mud-caked socks, rinsed them in the river then tossed them beside the seat. If he'd been thinking, he would've taken them off sooner, but there was no going back now. The sun would dry them, he reasoned, and he still had at least one pair of dry socks in his pack. He could manage being barefoot for now.

Still beaming to himself, he pulled the boat back up on shore just far enough it wouldn't drift away. He filled the old mason jars from the clean water a little way upstream. The water where he'd been standing was too muddy to drink.

With a spring in his step, he bounded back to the cabin, trying not to spill the water as he went.

Burns was sitting where Ryan had left him, an empty wrapper by his feet. "Those biscuits leave a great deal to be desired, Ryan," Burns remarked as Ryan trotted in and offered him the jar of water.

"Hey, they're from your plane, not mine; not that I have a plane anyhow," Ryan replied sitting down on the floor nearby. Water pooled around his ankles from the still dripping cuffs of his jeans. "There's a boat, and the river's wide. We can travel by water for a while. It'll be easier than walking, or…" his voice trailed off.

Ryan and Burns both eyed the makeshift stretcher silently.

"I can…" Ryan began to offer.

"No," Burns replied curtly. "I am more than fit to walk from hereon. Whatever abuse I may have suffered at that impact, I assure you I'm greatly improved now. I daresay I could rival you for stamina, young Ryan."

"Yeah?" Ryan asked as he tore into a packet of ancient crackers. "I doubt that Monty. Yesterday, you barely seemed to know who I was."

"A jest, I assure you."

Ryan shoved a cracker in his mouth and swallowed mightily. "I might believe that if your arm weren't still in a sling, and your face weren't half-covered in that bruise."

Burns grumbled some remark, and Ryan laughed. For a moment, they were just two men trading affectionate verbal jabs over breakfast. It felt strange, almost normal. If they hadn't been lost in the Canadian wilderness, they might as well have been back at Burns Manor.

"I swear, Ryan. I shall never fully grasp your implacable desire to have the final word in any such discussion."

Ryan gave an innocent shrug. "You've said it yourself, the impertinence of youth."

"Bah." Burns waved a hand. "Your confidence both bolsters and vexes my sensitivities in one. You are infuriating, obdurate, and engaging in one." He took a sip of the water, made a slight face, then shrugged. "Academic prowess is one thing, but textbook success is hardly a fair measure of a man. I find adversity proves the best way to test the mettle of one's character, don't you agree?"

The young man shrugged again. "If you're saying that hardship is what truly allows one's character to shine, I'd agree with you. Some people fold under pressure, some people rise to the occasion."

Burns raised his jar, as if in honor. "Exactly! It is also the chance to gauge the altruism of another. Is aid metered out in kind, or does one focus upon his own survival at all costs?"

Ryan wrung out the cuffs of his jeans, watching the muddy water leach into the cracks on the floor. "Are you saying you're surprised I didn't leave you behind?"

The old man regarded Ryan carefully. "Should I be? Are you one to consider your nature self-centric? Would you have left me for dead if it were to your ultimate benefit?"

Rocking back on his haunches, Ryan couldn't help but laugh. "Oh, like I enjoyed hauling your unconscious ass for miles before schlepping you across that river and dragging you some more! Come off it, Burnsie! You know I wouldn't have done that."

Burns finished the water is his jar in a slow sip, his eyes never leaving Ryan's as he drank.

"I know that now," he replied, wiping his mouth daintily. "So, you made mention of river travel? We may as well be getting on. The day's not getting younger, nor are we." He handed his jar to Ryan who wrapped them both in a blanket.

"Touché," Ryan replied. "Let's go then."

...

Rowing with the current is always easier than fighting against it. Even in the slow, heavy current of the broad water, they made good time. The sun rose higher, surprisingly hot in the still air. Ryan took off his shirt and tied it around his head, letting the sun shine on his bare shoulders.

It didn't cool him much. Soon, his body was glistening with sweat. He felt the hot spots of blisters begin to form on his palms as the rough wood of the oars pushed against his skin. From time to time, he paused, letting the current carry them. When he got thirsty, he dipped his mason jar in the cool, amber water, and drank heavily.

He'd given up on worrying about waterborne diseases. At this point, he'd either get sick or he wouldn't. But he'd been fine thus far. There was no reason to assume anything would change.

For the most part, Burns was quiet. The old man was trying to maintain composure, but Ryan could tell from his pinched face and slumped shoulders that he was far from well. Burns' early morning liveliness had been replaced by a sullen determination: to keep Ryan from seeing how injured the old man truly was.

Burns cradled his broken arm to his chest, body folded almost double to his own lap.

Ryan pretended not to notice. It was a small courtesy, but the only one he could offer his step-father at the moment.

The river bent and curved, Ryan's thoughts drifting with it. At some points, the water picked up speed, and he had to dip the oars in to steer them towards the more gentle currents. Ryan found himself losing track of time and distance. The miles slipped away, passing with the shaded tree-line, forgotten in an almost meditative calm. He didn't have to keep glancing forward over his shoulder. It was as if his body could feel the eddies, and adjust naturally.

Up ahead, the river narrowed a bit as it cut around a tight oxbow bend. The outer side was steep, where the river had bit into the hillside with each high surge. The inner side was shallow and lazy, sediment accumulating from the more leisurely flow. The heavy rocks were always the first to be deposited, then gravel, pebbles, and finally sand. Each particle, lighter than the last, carried further in the water's grasp.

Ryan rowed towards the middle of the current, balancing the speed of the river against its depth, not wishing to run aground on the sandbar to his side.

Like many of the bows, this one was tight, changing their course nearly a fully one hundred and eighty degrees. The sun seemed to swing around them, and Ryan had to remind himself of its fixed position. The sun was where it always was. It was just them that had turned.

After a second switchback the river's course slowed again, presenting a long straight way.

Burns gave a cough, and pointed ahead.

Ryan pulled the oars into the boat and turned around.

A railroad bridge spanned the river, black iron and steel supported by massive granite block pylons. On the leeward side, where the bank was mostly level, an earth and riprap berm had been constructed, supporting the tracks as they approached the bridge.

Ryan flexed his blistered palms. "We should get out and follow them," he noted. "They'll take us back to civilization!"

He'd just begun to reach for the oars when Burns' leaned forward, and put a pale hand on his chest. "No," Burns replied, shaking his head. "We're best staying the course."

Ryan pivoted, watching the bridge as they drifted closer. "But, but…" he started to protest.

Burns' hand was still on his skin, cool fingers pressing him back. "What is your intent? Run ashore by that rise and climb up? Suppose, young Ryan, that such a rail line is still even in operation? That the rails haven't grown pitted with rust and disuse; then what?"

Ryan shifted his weight. "We'd follow it!"

"To what way, Ryan? Suppose you head east, the way we're traveling now. And you pick you way hot and dry away from the water we both need. Why, you could follow that line a hundred miles deeper into the wilderness, and all the while if we'd only but turned west we would've found a town in but three miles."

Burns shook his head and continued. "No, Ryan. No. It's not worth the risk. Even under idea circumstances the odds of either route leading to nearby development is slim. It is just as likely, if not moreso, that both ways will do little more but span for dozens if not hundreds of miles, taking us deeper astray."

Ryan tilted his head, watching as the silent grey pylons slid past, the shadow of the iron bridge casting a latticed shadow across their craft.

"It is better, young man, to let some uncertainties go."

There wasn't much more Ryan could say to that. He dangled his raw hands in the water, feeling it soothe his aching hands, then resumed rowing at a steady pace.

...

Traveling by boat had been an unexpected blessing, and Ryan didn't even bother to guess the distance they'd traveled, but all too soon it came to an impossible end. The current picked up, the river becoming narrow and rocky. Unwilling to test either the craft or his skill at navigating rapids, he was forced to pull ashore, load their gear onto his back, and help Burns to his feet.

At least my shoes dried out, Ryan thought as his feet crunched onto the rocky shoreline.

Burns didn't complain as he stepped out, leaning on Ryan for support. The ground wasn't necessarily treacherous, but the rocks were round and slick, haphazardly placed by the water. Ryan dragged the boat as far inland as he could, pulling it up under the tree-line before abandoning the effort.

"We're probably not going to use it again anyhow," he muttered, with one last frustrated tug. "I don't know why I bothered."

He bent down and pulled a smooth, barkless branch from between two rocks. It was about six feet long and straight, polished by the elements. He offered it to Burns as a walking stick.

The old man accepted wordlessly, with a flicker of gratitude in his eyes.

Already the sun was dropping lower. The days seemed too short, Ryan thought, and yet at the same time far too long. He untied his shirt from his neck, and slipped it back over his sunburned skin, wincing at the sensation. Who would've thought the spring sun could be so strong? An important lesson there, he decided. Unfortunately, there was nothing more he could do about it.

Like the peeling skin on his palms and fingertips, it was a discomfort he'd have to endure.

In the back of his mind, Ryan figured he should be hungry. For some reason, his appetite seemed nonexistent. Perhaps it was the water in his belly, or determination. Or maybe, eating three meals a day was just propaganda.

Ryan's mind wandered as he walked, listening to the river and forest sounds merging with his own thoughts. Behind him, Burns' footfall was slow, but steady. Ryan unconsciously adjusted his pace, slowing to a speed Burns could manage without even thinking about it. They were in this together. He would not leave the old man behind.

Over the past few days, Ryan had become surprisingly comfortable with the sounds of the wilderness around him. What at first had seemed a deafening silence when compared to the dull roar of society was actually a world as vibrant and loud as any human noise. It was simply more subtle. It was not like the dull grinding roar of an engine

Nothing like the churning an incoming plane's propeller mincing the air.

He shook his head, nothing like it at all.

Propeller?! Engine!? Ryan snapped to attention, staring up through the evergreen boughs above his head. "A plane!" he yelled, shrugging off his pack and bucking towards the river's edge. "It's a plane!"

No sooner had he managed to call out to Burns than a yellow aircraft burst into view, loud and low over the treeline, following the river like a hawk. Ryan threw down his pack and sprinted through the undergrowth, recklessly fumbling in haste.

A root snagged his shoe, and he went tumbling forward, catching himself and launching forward without even feeling the impact. "Here! Here!" he yelled against the heavy beat of the thundering engines over his head.

"Use the signal mirror!" he heard Burns shouting as he crashed onto the rocky waterline, waving his arms at the disappearing tailfin.

The silence that followed the plane was as profound and oppressive as any he'd experienced before in his life. He waited, hoping the pilot had seen him, praying against all odds they'd circle back.

Nothing.

Seconds stretched into minutes, and then into more than Ryan even knew.

Ryan stood, arms outstretched. He felt like some cruel parody of a scarecrow. Disheartened, he left them fall. Slowly, he trudged back to Burns.

"The signal mirror," Burns asked softly, nodding a head towards Ryan's pack.

Ryan shook his head. "I don't have a mirror."

Burns gave a weak shrug. "It would've looked like a normal small mirror, but with a hole at the center for sighting on planes."

Ryan threw himself down on a fallen log. "Oh. That's what that was."

"Where is it?"

Ryan took off his glasses and ran a hand over his face. "I thought it was just a shaving mirror. I left it behind in the plane, with the rest of the nonessentials. I'm such an idiot!" He dropped his head in his hands.

Burns hovered nearby, as if uncertain what to say or do. After a moment, he reached out and put a hand on Ryan's shoulder. "It was an honest mistake. You didn't know."

"I should've," Ryan snapped, not looking up.

"No," Burns replied. "No…" his voice trailed off, as if he wanted to say more, but couldn't find the words. He licked his lips, and looked up towards the late afternoon sun. "That was a short-range aircraft, Canadian search and rescue. It couldn't have launched from far."

He reached out, grabbing Ryan's chin in his good hand. Ryan was intimately aware of the dark stubble covering his own chin, in parallel to Burns' white scruff. He allowed Burns to pull his head up. "If we press on, we may very well find our way into town before dark. There'll be a bright moon tonight. Light enough by which to see."

Ryan gave a curt sound of agreement. "But we need to stay closer to the river, out from under the trees, in case they come back."

"Naturally," Burns agreed, dropping into step behind the young man's lead.

...

Their process was laborious, and hot. In contrast to the shade under the conifers, the rocky edge of the river was notably warmer, especially as the air began to cool with lengthening day. The rocks which had been baking under the sun all day now returned the favor, radiating their heat upward, into Ryan's hands as he carefully clambered between them.

It was slow going.

The process would've been tedious at the best of times, but fatigue and pain was beginning to lodge itself in Ryan's joints, and Burns was in no condition to make haste.

Still, Ryan pushed himself forward, navigating the most stable path through the toasty rocks, between water and forest's edge. His shadow reached out from his feet, ever lengthening as the day drew to a close. At times, he had to push himself between larger boulders where the bank was steep. There, he carefully inched along, mindful of the smooth rocks under his shoes, always glancing back to see if Burns needed his help.

During one of those moments, in a sort of mock canyon between to massive granite slabs, Ryan drew up and looked back.

"Are you doing okay, Monty?" he asked.

The old man was moving with the overly conscientious movements of the weary. He was calculating each step, lifting one foot then placing it down, leaning on the branch Ryan had given him for stability. "This spot," Burns panted, stretching an arm out to indicate a narrow rise and short climb. Burns reached a hand out.

Ryan sat down, and slid himself forward. He hadn't thought about the step-like notch, but with two good hands, it had been easy to brace himself on the rocks and swing his feet through. Burns might've made it at the best of times.

These were not such times. Ryan braced his rump on the edge of the short ledge and looked for a spot to grip. The rock beside him had a knot of roots, a few tiny crevasses, plenty of space just wide enough for him to slip a hand into. He'd hold on with one hand guide Burns up with the other. Wedging his hips into the gap, he leaned forward.

"Come on, old man," he urged, reaching his free hand out.

Burns' fingers tightened around his, and Ryan found himself surprised by the strength Burns still managed to hold. Ryan leaned back, pulling Burns towards him, helping the thin man climb up and past him through the gap.

"Easy enough," Ryan panted. He pivoted and stood up, reaching towards a gap in the boulder to steady himself.

Ryan had barely lowered his hand into the space when he felt a sudden burning stab. "Gah!" He swore, and stumbled. Reflexively drew his hand up, clutching it to his chest. The motion threw him off balance and he tumbled forward, just barely avoiding a collision with the slow moving Burns.

"Are you okay, Ryan," the old man asked, immediately concerned.

"Fucking wasps!" Ryan hissed, carefully extending his hand into the fading light and examining the injury.

Two small holes dotted the edge of his right hand, just below his wrist bone.

"Not wasps…"

As if in affirmation came a rattling buzz from the rock. Neither man needed to say it. Rattlesnake. Ryan stared dumbly at his hand as two small drops of blood filled the holes, and ran out. Ryan swore again, first quietly, then loudly until he was screaming into the darkening sky.

He raised his hand, shook it, wincing as the droplets of blood spattered free. Instinctively he drew his hand to his mouth.

"No!" Burns snapped, snatching Ryan's wounded hand. "Don't."

Ryan paused, bewildered.

"Let it bleed, keep it low and still, let the venom drain. Assuming there is even any."

Ryan curled his hand protectively in the hem of his shirt. "It's a rattlesnake."

"And not all bites are envenomed. But that is as assumption we cannot bank on. Slow your heart, Ryan. Breathe deeply. Grant that tainted blood the angle to flow freely. We will not stop tonight. We have no option but to press on."

Ryan resisted to urge to suck at his hand, and forced himself to hold it down. "It's getting dark."

Burns nodded.

"And the moon will rise soon. We walk, Ryan. My eyes and yours. You have made it this far, have you not? I've no doubt your unwavering desire to survive will carry you forward."

"Dead or alive, eh, Monty?" Ryan asked. It was a rhetorical question, and Burns apparently felt no need to reply. Ryan clenched his jaw in determination, biting his teeth against the throbbing pain in his hand, and pressed on.

Side by side, infinitesimally small against the vast wilderness, two lives refused to give in.

.

When he first began to see lights flickering between the trees, Ryan Hall Smithers wondered if they were real, or a hallucination. Neither he or Burns had spoken, both men fighting their own inner battle against themselves. From time to time thought, Ryan still dropped back, affording Burns what support he could with his good hand, ignoring the irony of their mutual condition.

Ryan's head swam, he felt dizzy and weak. He wasn't sure as he walked if it were a product of fatigue, or the subtle tendrils of the snake's neurotoxin shutting down his brain one cell at a time. He supposed it didn't matter. The plane hadn't come back, not that it would've seen them in the dark anyhow.

The fairy lights seemed to dance and swirl, tiny pinpricks that his eyes couldn't focus on.

He was willing to disbelieve them, until he heard Burns' dry voice beside his ear.

"Tell me, Ryan. Do you see those as well?"

"I thought it was just me," Ryan replied. Fighting his own body every step of the way, finding himself both unwilling to keep going, and unable to stop, Ryan staggered into a clearing lit with dozens of tiny lights.

Christmas lights! he thought in distracted amusement. They left them up all year round!

Strands of tiny lights wove around the handrail of a wooden deck on the back of a single story ranch house. Ryan grabbed Burns' arm, half-dragging him across the lawn to the sliding glass doors. He reached up, pounding on the trim with the flat of his good hand.

"Hello! Anybody home! We're hurt! We need help!"

The last thing Ryan remembered was the interior lights flicking on behind the back curtains, the sound of footsteps inside. The curtain was pulled back, slider door thrown open and a woman's face swam into view.

"We need help," Ryan panted, sinking down to his knees beside Burns' feet.

He heard the woman yell for her husband, a flurry of activity, then he remembered nothing more.