Free Taken by Norah McClintock Page A

burned up my leg. I screamed. I had never felt anything that even came close to the searing agony I was experiencing. And it didn’t let up. Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.
    I lay motionless for a few moments, stunned by the pain. Then, slowly, I tried to move myself into a sitting position. Tears streamed down my cheeks. Once I had eased my butt down onto the ground, I grabbed my right knee and gently pulled my foot out of the hole. Blinding pain shot through my ankle. I was sure that when I got my foot out of that hole, there would be blood everywhere.
    There wasn’t. There was no blood at all.
    But the pain made me cry out again. I sat there for a few moments, hoping it would subside.
    It didn’t.
    I felt a wave of panic wash over me. What if…?
    Get up, Steph. You have to get up. You have to try to walk. You have to get out of here.
    I drew in a deep breath. I planted my hands firmly on the ground and got my good foot under me. Even that small movement jarred my ankle and sent a shock of agony through me. I steadied myself on one foot and looked around. There was a tree close by. I dragged myself over to it and grabbed hold of the trunk. Slowly I eased myself to a standing position. I was breathing hard. My underarms prickled with sweat.
    Okay , I told myself. So far, so good —as long as I ignored the feeling that someone had thrust a white-hot sword through my ankle and was twisting it this way and that.
    I put a little weight on my right foot—and almost collapsed from the pain.
    You can’t stay here, Steph , I told myself. You have to keep moving.
    I scanned the immediate area for something to use as a walking stick. A massive tree branch lay on the forest floor to my left, like a giant’s discarded fan. I made my way gingerly to it on one foot, holding on to whatever I could for support. One sturdy branch had been partially snapped off by the fall. I wrestled with it until it broke off completely, and I tested my weight on it. It would have to do. I leaned heavily on it and tried to take a step.
    I collapsed again. I couldn’t do it. It was too hard, too painful.
    You have two choices, Steph. Always the same two choices.
    Give up or go on.
    I grasped the walking stick and maneuvered myself back up onto my good foot. This time I put all my weight on the stick and swung my hurt ankle forward without touching the ground. Even that small movement made me want to scream, but I managed to stay upright.
    My progress was painfully slow—with a heavy emphasis on painful. I put as much of my weight as I could on the branch—my walking stick—but every step sent a searing shock up my leg. Whenever I came to a fallen tree, which happened with discouraging regularity, I had to sit down on the trunk, swing one foot, followed by the other, and struggle to a standing position again. Twice I put my walking stick on a rock only to have it slip off when I leaned on it, sending me crashing to the ground. Twice I cried out with pain.
    I hadn’t gone far before I had to stop and rest. I curled up under a tree, wrapped myself in my ratty old blanket and wept. I knew it wouldn’t help, but my ankle hurt so much. I was hungry again, and thirsty. I was cold. I was sick. And now I could barely walk. I was never going to get home. I was going to be stuck in these woods until I died.
    I slept fitfully that night. Every time I moved, pain shot up my leg. When morning came, I was as exhausted as if I had run a marathon, and I was still feverish. I sat under the tree, feeling sorry for myself. Why couldn’t someone come along and find me? Why couldn’t I get lucky just for once?
    But no one came along.
    I dug my walking stick into the ground and slowly pulled myself up. I put some weight on my injured foot to see if it had gotten better overnight.
    It hadn’t.
    I wanted to lie down again. Maybe if I rested for a day, the pain would go away.
    Or maybe it wouldn’t. Maybe I would