They rode together up the hill. Blur of trees and sky outside, groan of brakes, a current between them. With each curve of the road, the press of one bare shoulder against another, until the bus slowed and stopped.

The doors folded open, they stepped out to the street. Armstrong Drive dead-ended there—a parking lot, a ranger’s station, the entrance to the woods. Sara unzipped her backpack and pulled out a thermos, unscrewed the lid and sipped. Their fingers touched as Annie took it, and Sara watched Annie press her mouth against its metal rim and drink.

It struck Sara every time—the way the air changed as she entered the forest. Cool, wet, fresh dirt, even bright days like this one dimming and softening. “Should we get a map?” Annie asked, but Sara shook her head. She knew the woods well, had no trouble getting lost or finding her way back.

She took Annie’s hand and led her past the station. A group of tourists brushed by them, their faces upturned. It felt good to feel small. That’s why her mother had taken her here when she was a little girl, why Sara kept coming after her mother died.

They cut onto Sara’s favorite trail—the steepest, the quietest—and hiked until they were breathless, eye level with the ancient redwoods’ branches, as close as they could be to the sky.