For hours, I lay there without moving, afraid that even the smallest shift would send a wave of pain crashing through my body.

The cold crept in slowly at first, a faint chill brushing against my skin, then settling deeper, pressing into my bones as the sun slipped lower and lower beyond the trees.

The forest, which had once seemed calm and familiar, transformed into something vast and indifferent. Shadows stretched long across the ground.

The sky faded from pale gold to bruised purple. And I remained where I had fallen, staring upward, trying to make sense of what had just happened.

My head throbbed relentlessly. Each pulse felt thick and heavy, as though my skull were echoing with the memory of the blow.

When I lifted my trembling hand to my forehead, my fingers brushed against sticky, half-dried blood. The sensation made everything real in a way my mind had been struggling to accept.

My own son had left me there.

The thought circled through my mind again and again, refusing to settle into logic. There are betrayals you read about in books or see in films, dramatic and distant. Then there are betrayals that strike so close they fracture your understanding of the world.

I could not reconcile the boy I had raised with the man who had looked at me without hesitation. I kept searching for an explanation—anger, desperation, confusion—but the simplest possibility sat heavily in my chest.

Money.

There had been tension in recent months. Subtle at first. Questions about insurance policies. Casual comments about inheritance. I had dismissed them as immaturity, maybe impatience. I never imagined they might lead to something irreversible.

As darkness settled fully over the forest, fear began to replace disbelief. The temperature dropped quickly. Night air in the wilderness does not negotiate.

It settles in, damp and unforgiving. I realized that if I stayed where I was, shock or exposure might finish what had been started.

I did not want to die on the forest floor.

The instinct to survive can awaken even when hope feels thin. Slowly, carefully, I tested my limbs. My left side protested sharply, and my ribs felt tender when I inhaled too deeply. But nothing seemed completely broken. Painful, yes. Paralyzing, no.

I rolled onto my side.

The movement was enough to make my vision blur. I waited, breathing shallowly until the dizziness passed. Then I dragged one knee forward.

The ground beneath me was uneven—roots, loose soil, scattered leaves. Each inch forward required deliberate effort. I did not think about distance. I thought only about the next movement.

Crawl. Pause. Breathe.

Somewhere in the distance, an owl called. Branches shifted in the wind. The forest was alive, unconcerned with my suffering. That indifference fueled me in a strange way. If nature was not going to save me, I would have to save myself.

After what felt like hours—but may have been far less—I spotted a fallen branch thick enough to serve as support. It lay partially lodged between two rocks, stripped of smaller twigs.

I reached for it and nearly cried out when my shoulder flared with pain. Still, I wrapped my fingers around the wood and pulled it closer.

Using it as leverage, I forced myself onto my knees.

The world tilted. Black dots swarmed at the edges of my vision. I pressed my forehead against the branch and focused on breathing. Inhale. Exhale. Stay conscious.

Standing was worse. My legs trembled violently under my weight, as though they no longer trusted me to guide them. I leaned heavily on the branch, transforming it into a crude walking staff. One step forward. Then another.

The moon had risen by then, thin but bright enough to outline the path faintly. I did not know exactly where I was, but I remembered there was a ranger station several miles from the trailhead. If I could reach the main trail, I might find it.

Each step sent a ripple of discomfort through my body. My boots felt heavier than usual. My breathing was uneven. At times I had to stop entirely, bracing myself against a tree trunk while nausea passed. I whispered to myself—not prayers exactly, but instructions.

Keep moving. Do not sit down. Not yet.