Free Into the Wild by Sarah Beth Durst

Julie tumbled off the seat and landed smack on the pine needle floor.
    Flashing its front reflector back at her, the bike hopped over roots, and she forgot about the pain of the fall. Oh, wow. Her bike was alive. She had a living bike.
    Oh, no. Her bike was alive. Pedals spinning on their own, the bike (with her magic boots still tied to it) sped off into the forest. “Wait! Come back!” She scrambled to her feet and ran after it. It dodged between the trees, and she stumbled as her sandal caught on a root. Catching herself on a tree trunk, she called after it, “Bike, come back!” It disappeared between the trees.
    Ferns folded like closing curtains to hide the bike’s tracks. The crunch of the tires on the ground was instantly gone. Julie listened for her bike and heard nothing, only the sound of her own breathing. Why didn’t she hear any birds or wind or anything? It felt as if the trees were holding their breath.
    Shivering, she looked up at the armlike branches. The trees seemed to be leaning in toward her. Knots in the bark looked almost like faces. Shadows leered at her. She thought she saw something out of the corner of her eye and turned quickly, but nothing moved.
    “Safe inside the Wild,” she mocked herself. Anything and everything—witches, wolves, goblins, trolls—could be hiding in the misshapen shadows. This was the Wild Wood. This was the place where Mom had lived and Dad had died.
    Deep breath, she told herself. Don’t panic. She had a plan: she’d follow the streets (or what was left of them) through downtown to the Wishing Well Motel—the last place that Cindy and Goldie had seen Mom. With luck, Mom would still be there. Of course, if Julie hadn’t lost the boots, she could have been there and back already. Now she’d have to do it on foot. But the plan still held, right?
    Tromping over bushes and ferns, she headed back toward the path. She’d left it to chase the bike. Stupid, stupid, stupid, she thought. She hadn’t been in the Wild for a full minute before she’d lost the boots, the bike, and the path.
    It hit her like a slap: she’d lost the path.
    She’d run straight. It should be right here. She should have found it by now. Julie scanned the forest: dark, crooked trees . . . all the same.
    No, no, no! She couldn’t be lost. How could she be lost? She hadn’t run far. The street had to be near. She’d just picked the wrong direction. It must be over there . . . Backtracking, she tried another direction.
    No path.
    Gillian was out there playing the trumpet for wild animals so that Julie could come here, and Julie was lost after two minutes. She’d wasted Gillian’s bravery.
    Mom would be so disappointed.
    Balling her hands into fists, Julie swallowed hard again and again. Don’t cry, she told herself. Don’t cry, don’t cry. She just had to stay calm and not panic and it would all be okay. She couldn’t be far from the former West Street. It wasn’t as if the Wild could rearrange geography. (Could it?) She’d seen that gas station—the Wild didn’t transform everything. It wasn’t all-powerful. (Was it?)
    “I’m trying, Mom,” she said aloud. “Doesn’t that count?” How could it count? If she didn’t succeed, Mom would never know she’d tried.
    Then I’ll just have to succeed, she thought. She might have lost her bike and the Seven League Boots, but she still had all the magic supplies from the linen closet. She wasn’t helpless. She could do this. Straightening her shoulders, she picked a different direction and began to walk.
    As she went deeper into the forest, the woods thickened. Ancient-looking ferns and thorny bushes filled the gaps between the trees, creating a lacework of menacing shadows. She climbed over fallen logs and massive roots.
    How like a fairy tale, she thought, a girl lost in the woods. She tried not to think about the things that happened to little girls lost in woods. Maybe she was more like the simpleton heroes, wandering lost until