The Cessna came down hard in a patch of black spruce. For a long minute Mara heard nothing but her own heartbeat. Then her cousin Dell coughed in the seat beside her, alive, his glasses cracked but still on. The radio was dead except for one thing: a clean tone, repeating, over and over, on an old frequency. A tower beacon. Somewhere out there, someone had left a light on.

"That beacon means people," Mara said. She grabbed the map from the broken dash and found a tiny mark: an old ranger tower, maybe ninety miles north. "We walk toward it. We follow the signal." Dell wiped his cracked glasses and nodded, already pulling on his boots.

An hour in, Dell stopped dead. Fresh tracks crossed the trail, huge and clawed. "Bear," he whispered. The prints were wet. Whatever made them was close, and it was moving the same way they were, toward the beacon.

Dell wanted to run. He bolted up the trail and a dark shape crashed out of the brush behind him. Mara grabbed the flare gun and fired it at the ground between them. The bang and the burst of fire sent the bear wheeling away into the trees.

Shaken but unhurt, they pushed on and made the tower by dark. Inside they found a logbook, a flashlight, and a hand-crank radio. Mara cranked until her arm ached, then sent their call. A ranger answered, half asleep, then fully awake. "You're the missing plane. Don't move. We're coming for you."