Prologue
A Rock, a Dash, and a Fuzzy Interruption
I’m writing this with the taste of cold water still lingering in my mouth and sunlight still warm on my skin. If this is what the start of an “adventure” feels like, I’m not sure whether to brace myself or just enjoy it while I can.
Today it was the four of us—Nicci, me (Ben), Ollie, and Leo—setting out toward the forest. Not just any forest, either: that dark, extra tall, old growth Pacific NW kind of forest. The kind that always looks like it’s keeping secrets, even in the middle of the day. Even from far away, it feels heavy somehow, like the trees have been standing there long enough to remember everything you’ve forgotten.
We started along the pathway first—a brightly lit dirt path that felt almost too cheerful compared to where we were headed. Sun all over it, like it was trying to convince us this was just a pleasant walk and not the beginning of something uncertain.
Ollie, as usual, treated the whole thing like a mission. Three years old and already acting like the world is something to be conquered at a run. Brown hair catching the light, hazel eyes always scanning ahead, body in motion like standing still is a personal insult. He kept pressing forward, full of that fearless, restless energy. If I looked away for a second, I could practically feel him gaining distance.
Leo… well, Leo is one, and Leo has priorities. He loved holding rocks—loved it. Every time there was something even vaguely rock-shaped within reach, his focus snapped to it like it was treasure. There’s something oddly grounding about it, watching him clutch a stone with absolute seriousness, like it’s the most important object in the whole wide world. While Ollie surged ahead, Leo stayed nearer, small hands committed to whatever rock he’d decided was worth carrying.
I found myself in the familiar middle place—keeping Ollie from vanishing too far up the path, and keeping Leo moving without disrupting his sacred bond with his chosen rock. I’m petite, sure, but I’ve learned quickly that size doesn’t really matter when you’re trying to keep two kids with completely opposite speeds pointed in the same direction.
Somewhere along the pathway, the day offered us a small surprise: a small fuzzy dog. It was just there—on the path, like it belonged, like it had always been part of the scenery and we were the ones intruding.
Ollie noticed first, of course. He always does. That alertness, that immediate shift into action—he locked onto the dog like this was the next objective. Leo’s attention seemed to split between the dog and his rock, which honestly felt like a fair assessment of the situation. I watched them both closely, gauging the dog’s mood as much as the kids’. It was small and fuzzy, yes, but I’ve learned not to trust “small” as a guarantee of “safe.”
We encountered it, we acknowledged it, and then—just as simply—we moved on. No drama. No chaos. Just a brief moment of shared attention in the sunlight before the path belonged to us again.
After that, we stopped and had a nice cold drink in the sun. It felt earned, even though we hadn’t gone far. The light was bright, the dirt path warm beneath us, and for a moment the looming darkness of the forest ahead didn’t feel quite so pressing.
Ollie barely settled, still keyed up like he could bolt at any second. Leo held his rock like it was part of the drink break ritual. And me? I let myself breathe. I let the sun hit my face and pretended, briefly, that we were just four people out for a simple walk.
But the forest is still waiting. Dark. Old. Tall enough to swallow the sky.
And we’re still headed toward it.