Twenty-five years ago, I self-published The River of Rain, a philosophical exploration of freedom, human nature, and the modern world. To mark its anniversary, I’m releasing a fully revised edition, one chapter every Wednesday. This is the novel as it was meant to be. Continued from Chapter 6.
There were no birds at sunrise. It was the fourth day Ariana had been with the boy, the fifth since the accident. She felt stronger—strong enough, at least, to loosen her guard. But the night before would not settle in her mind. It turned over and over, refusing to take shape. Part of her still held back, wary of the boy who had slipped away sometime before dawn. Another part leaned toward him now, drawn closer than she wanted to admit. If they hadn’t kissed, she thought, things might have remained simple. As they were.
She coughed and pulled the fur blanket tighter around her shoulders. The cold had a bite to it this morning; each breath made her shiver. Sitting still would not help. She pushed herself to her feet and decided to explore the cave—there might be something left to eat.
The light faded quickly as she moved deeper inside. Her eyes strained to adjust, and only then did she realize how far the cave stretched. Her foot struck something with a dull clank, and a sharp pain shot through her toes. She caught herself against the wall and crouched, feeling blindly in the dark.
It was a cache.
Her hands moved over it piece by piece … backpacks, the heavy kind meant for long travel; metal utensils; pots and pans; bottles of water. More than she could have carried alone. Why hide it back here? Blankets lay folded beneath it all, and clothes … too many for one person. She sorted through them by touch, then by what little light reached this far. Some were women’s. One set, worn but intact, fit her well enough.
She stripped off the skins and pulled on the clothing. The fabric smelled stale, as if it had waited here a long time, but it held warmth better than anything she had. She coughed again, harder this time, and a faint dizziness crept in behind her eyes.
Not now.
She steadied herself against the rock, the cave wall cold and damp beneath her palm. The world tilted, just slightly. She closed her eyes, breathing through it, but a low sound escaped her before she could stop it.
From somewhere ahead, a voice answered.
“Who’s in there?”
Victor spent the morning gathering what little the forest still offered. Winter was closing in—he could feel it in the air, sharp and thin. Leaves were loosening from the trees, plants harder to find. He had left Ariana asleep in the cave. She needed the rest, and he needed the quiet. Ingram had vanished after the rainstorm, gone without a trace. Birds rarely explained themselves; they followed their own purposes. Victor had learned not to expect answers.
He came away with a handful of acorns and a bundle of pine needles. Boiled together, they made a bitter sort of soup, but it held the edge of hunger back. The rest of the deer meat he meant to dry later, cut into strips and left to harden. It wouldn’t taste like much, but it would last.
When he reached the cave, something felt wrong at once. He stepped inside and saw that Ariana was gone. He set his bundle down, listening. A sudden crash echoed from deeper within, followed by silence.
“Who’s in there?” he called.
No answer—only a low, strained moan.
He ran toward the sound and found her crumpled on the ground, dressed in clothes he recognized from the hikers’ packs. Her face was pale, her movements sluggish.
“Are you alright?” he asked, dropping to his knees beside her.
“I’m sick,” she managed, coughing hard enough to shake her whole body.
He pressed a hand to her forehead. Heat lingered there, unmistakable.
“You’ve got a fever,” he said. “We need to get you closer to the entrance. I’ll make a fire.”
He lifted her carefully and carried her toward the cave mouth, where a weak gray light filtered in. He laid her down and turned back at once, gathering what he needed—bottled water, a pot, wool blankets, the dry sticks he’d saved for rain. His arms filled too quickly; things slipped and clattered to the ground. He made two trips, then knelt and struck a match.
The flame caught faster than he expected.
He paused, just for a second, watching it take hold. Matches. Bottled water. Blankets from abandoned packs. He had made rules for himself about these things—about what he would and wouldn’t use. Somehow, without noticing, he had broken them all.
He didn’t stop.
He set the pot over the fire and boiled the acorns and pine needles into their usual thin broth. When it was ready, he lifted her head and tried to feed her. She swallowed what she could, though half of it spilled down her chin.
“Thank you,” she said faintly, managing a small, unfocused smile.
He raised a finger to her lips, quieting her.
“I’m so dizzy,” she tried to say, but the words faltered and dissolved before they were finished.
“You’ll be better tomorrow,” Victor whispered. “I promise.”
He rose and began to pace. It was still early. A whole day stretched ahead of him, empty and uncertain. What had he done with his time before he found her? He tried to remember and came up with nothing that held.
He ducked back into the cave and pulled on the cloak he had stitched together from scraps of hide, fastening it at the shoulder with a sharpened bone. She would sleep. The fever might break if he left her to it. He would head toward the crash site and see what remained. He took his spear and knife with him, more from habit than thought.
The walk felt shorter this time, though it still took hours. His legs had grown used to distance; the ground no longer argued with him the way it once had. He followed small signs—broken branches, the faint press of his own tracks—until even those gave out near the crash site. That, too, he had learned: the land swallowed what it didn’t want remembered.
Voices carried ahead of him.
He stopped at once. These weren’t the scattered shouts of frightened kids. The tones were firmer, older—men who expected to be heard. A dog barked somewhere beyond the trees. Victor lowered himself and eased forward until he could see.
Men in blue stood around the wreckage. Something metallic on their chests caught the light and flashed. Beyond them, on the road, distant lights pulsed through the trees.
Cops.
The barking grew sharper, closer. Someone shouted. Victor turned just as the dog broke through the brush, teeth bared, its growl low and certain.
He dropped his weight and shifted his grip. The knife went back to his belt; the spear came forward, angled and waiting. The dog lunged.
At the last instant it leapt—clearing the point—and drove itself onto the shaft. The impact shuddered through Victor’s arms. He did not close his eyes.
It was over in a breath.
He wrenched the spear free and slipped back into the trees, moving fast and low, letting the forest take him again. Behind him, a voice cut through the noise.
“Tyrone?”
Continued in Chapter 8…
M.A. Kleen 
What are your thoughts?