Non-classifiable
"There's a shooter around here," Skip said in my ear. His voice was choked. It was the first time I'd ever heard Skip sound so frightened. Usually he was so confident, so sunny. Nothing fazed him. "Let's get outta here," he urged.
I caught an edge as I was about to pivot around a very large tree. I stumbled, righted myself and dug in hard on the back edge of my board, trying to turn. I wasn't really thinking about anything more than not hitting that tree.
The tree near Dead Man's Drop.
An instant later, my mind registers this certainty: She is not of this world. My throat constricts, strangling my scream. The choking sound I manage is no more than a whimper. I yank my sleeping bag over my head and hold it tight. Maybe I pant a little in the utter black of my cocoon. What is she doing? The sweat oozing from every pore on my rigid body itches. Has she gone? I strain to hear something, anything, over the roar of my blood. I wait for a very long time.
