Free The Last Place on Earth by Carol Snow Page B

reached the mystery coordinates.
    Henry must have sent the text. Right? I’d received no reply to my last message. And now that I was up here, deep in the forest, I’d lost all cell phone reception.
    And then it hit me: If there was no reception up here, how had Henry sent the text in the first place? Either he hadn’t been in the middle of nowhere when he’d sent it, or someone else had sent it for him.
    Or maybe the text wasn’t from Henry at all. Maybe it was a wrong number from some outdoorsy type giving directions to a camper friend. That would be bad. Also embarrassing.
    Slowly, carefully, we bumped along and up, navigating curves and switchbacks. The road’s surface went from smooth to rutted to barely paved. It had been over four hours since we’d left Henry’s house. It would still be a while before we hit the coordinates. We definitely had to get out of here and back to civilization before darkness fell.
    â€œThanks for doing this,” I said, my voice barely a whisper.
    â€œHuh?” Peter glanced away from the road.
    â€œThanks for driving me here. And up to Big Bear. And … everything. I know you have better things to do.”
    Peter snorted. “No, I don’t.”
    â€œYeah, but it seemed like the thing to say.”
    Just when I thought the road couldn’t get any worse, it gave up any pretense of being paved. At least the dirt was packed enough to drive on without too much risk of a flat tire. I examined the map I’d printed out, but without street signs or landmarks, I couldn’t tell how far we were from our destination. There would be a clearing off to the right, at the very curve of a sharp turn; I could see that in the satellite pictures. We couldn’t possibly miss it. Could we?
    The terrain lurched and curved too much to see far ahead. Every once in a while, I checked my phone on the off chance that I could get a signal, but of course there was none.
    And then, finally, it was there, to our right—the small dirt clearing. Peter pulled off the road. There was no one waiting, not even some random camper who had mistakenly sent the coordinates to my number.
    â€œUm,” Peter said.
    â€œYou can say that again.” My voice cracked.
    â€œYou’re not going to cry again, are you?”
    I shook my head, trying hard to keep it together.
    â€œYou can cry if you want to.” Peter sounded unsure.
    I laughed (with, okay, a tiny sob thrown in). “Might as well look around.”
    I got out of the car. The air was warm and sweet, with an undertone of decay. The forest here was prettier than in Big Bear—the trees less dense and more varied, with some wildflowers peeking through the underbrush. Ahead, a stand of trees loomed like something out of a fairy tale, sunlight dappling bark, twisted branches reaching out to embrace you. Or abduct you. One of those.
    There was no path, no way anyone could wander into the trees without getting hopelessly lost unless they left …
    Pebbles.
    I blinked. Surely I’d imagined that they had been left there by design? But no: A trail of ghostly white pebbles led around a bush, through a dried patch of wild grass, and to a tall oak tree.
    Something fluttered against the tree. I ran to get a better look. It was a folded note, nailed to the trunk. I pulled it down and read.
    D—
    You came! I knew you would. My parents enrolled me in a wilderness education program. So boring, but they said you could visit. My dad has to go to work later in the week, so he said he’ll drive you home.
    I’ve marked some trees ahead. Just follow them till you reach me.
    H.
    My laughter came so fast and high, I sounded like a crazy person, even to myself. I ran back along the pebble path to the clearing, where Peter stood leaning against the car, arms crossed over his chest.
    His face and posture relaxed when he saw me, but when I showed him the note, he said, “Daze, this is