Low Wick, Wet Leaves: She Did Not Return - by Diana Piner

The car is still at the trailhead. Elena does not turn around. She packed the spare batteries and checked the lantern fuel because that was what she did. Marcus and Lina expected the one who arrived first and kept the light. Fog sat low. Wet leaves gave under every boot. When she stepped off the path the dog was already there—ash-colored, ribs showing, heat rolling off its shoulder when it leaned into her thigh. She did not call out. She walked the lantern back into the dark and told them the marker was farther than she thought. Under the half-open bag before the others woke, the same tongue found her through cotton. She bit the inside of her cheek and closed the zipper after. At home she showered twice and answered the thread with one line about work. The radiator ticked. She left the phone face-down. Three nights later she drove alone. The dog waited where the trail narrowed. At the stone she opened her coat.