The air in the forest was thick, wet, and unseasonably cool for June. Haven adjusted the straps of the woven bamboo basket on her back. The rough material dug into her shoulders through her thin windbreaker. She stepped carefully over a rotting log, her cheap rubber boots sinking an inch into the damp, black soil.
Brenda followed close behind, hugging her jacket tighter as she shivered in the morning chill. She clutched a thick walking stick, her eyes darting nervously at every rustle in the underbrush.
"Watch your step," Haven whispered, pointing to a patch of disturbed earth near a cluster of ferns. "Old snare trap. I read that the hunter from the news segment warned about these still being active." In truth, after her rebirth, she had devoured every survival guide and foraging manual the local library had, terrified of ever being helpless again.
Brenda shuddered, giving the spot a wide berth.
They hiked for another hour, moving deeper into a shadowed ravine where the sunlight barely penetrated the dense canopy. The air here smelled heavily of decaying wood and rich earth.
Haven stopped. Her eyes scanned the base of a massive, dead oak tree.
A vibrant flash of yellow caught her eye.
She dropped to her knees. Nestled in the damp moss was a cluster of golden chanterelles, their ruffled edges perfectly intact.
"Here," Haven said, her voice tight with adrenaline.
She pulled a small, sharp paring knife from her pocket. She didn't rip them from the soil. Months of studying sustainable harvesting methods flashed through her mind, and she carefully sliced the stems right above the dirt line, preserving the mycelium network beneath.
Brenda knelt beside her, her eyes widening as she spotted a patch of honeycomb-patterned morels a few feet away.
For twenty minutes, the only sounds were the soft slicing of the knife and their quiet breathing. The bottom of Haven's basket was quickly filling with hundreds of dollars worth of wild fungi.
Snap.
The sharp sound of a heavy branch breaking under a boot echoed through the ravine.
Brenda gasped, dropping a morel. She scrambled backward, raising her wooden stick like a club.
Haven didn't gasp. Her body went completely still. She slowly stood up, her grip locking around the paring knife. She kept the blade low and hidden against the back of her wrist, her pulse hammering in her ears. All those months steeling herself after her rebirth, all the silent promises never to be a victim again, surged into her coiled muscles.
The thick bushes ten yards away parted.
A man stepped through.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a dark, unmarked waterproof jacket. But Haven's eyes immediately dropped to his feet. Custom-fitted, Italian leather hiking boots. The kind that cost a month of Brenda's wages.
Delano Lindsey stopped when he saw them. A flicker of genuine surprise crossed his sharp, aristocratic features.
He immediately raised both hands, palms open, showing he was empty-handed.
"Didn't mean to startle you," Delano said. His voice was a deep, resonant baritone that carried easily through the damp air. "I'm just passing through."
Haven didn't relax her posture. Her thumb remained rigid along the handle of the hidden knife.
"You're miles off the main trail," Haven said, her tone ice-cold. "People don't just 'pass through' this deep."
Delano lowered his hands slowly. He hooked his thumbs into the straps of his high-end tactical backpack. A small, canvas foraging pouch hung from his belt.
"I'm looking for the same thing you are," Delano said, his eyes dropping to the basket on Haven's back. "Those are beautiful Morchella esculenta. You found a spot with the perfect seventy-percent humidity."
Haven's eyes narrowed. He knew the Latin name. He knew the exact environmental conditions.
Brenda lowered her stick slightly, her shoulders relaxing at the sight of his calm demeanor. "Good morning," she offered, her voice still shaky.
Delano unzipped a side pocket of his bag. He pulled out a sleek, insulated water bottle and held it out toward Brenda. "You look out of breath, ma'am. Water?"
Before Brenda could reach for it, Haven stepped sideways, physically blocking her mother.
"We have our own supplies," Haven said flatly. "Keep your water."
Delano didn't look offended. He calmly screwed the cap back on and slid the bottle away. His gaze shifted back to Haven, a spark of calculation lighting up his dark eyes. He registered her defensive stance, the way she kept her right arm angled slightly away from her body.
"Fair enough," Delano said. He pointed toward the steep incline to his left. "I'll take the western ridge. You keep the valley. We won't cross paths again."
"See that you stick to it," Haven replied, her voice devoid of any polite inflection.
Delano offered a brief, respectful nod. He turned and walked away, his expensive boots making almost no sound on the wet leaves. Within seconds, the morning mist swallowed him whole.
"He seemed nice," Brenda whispered, lowering her stick completely.
Haven slowly exhaled, letting the tension drain from her fingers around the knife handle.
"People who wear two-thousand-dollar boots in the mud aren't nice, Mom," Haven said, turning back to the oak tree. "They're just bored."
