Edward Johnson

...Edward Johnson didn't like silence. But now it surrounded him on all sides—no roar of engines, no music, no drunken hubbub from the clubs. Only the crunch of branches underfoot and his own breathing.

It all started with a stupid argument. One of his friends blurted out that he wouldn't find his way without a GPS if dropped off in the middle of nowhere. Edward just chuckled, slammed the car door, and stepped into the forest with one thought: "I'll show these idiots what happened." He was confident he could do it in an hour, two at most—his memory was excellent, and orientation had never been a problem.

He was mistaken. The forest was too dense, the paths appeared and then disappeared, and the sun, which should have served as a guide, was hidden behind a gray shroud of clouds. Edward weaved between the tree trunks, and with each step it became increasingly clear: he had wandered further than he had planned. The phone, which he had habitually stuffed into his jeans pocket, betrayed him by showing "no service." He cursed through his teeth—thickly, with that same rough intonation that his colleagues and occasional waitresses knew so well.

Another hour passed. Or two. Edward no longer squinted with a self-assured grin—he simply walked, stopping occasionally, listening, rehearsing the route in his head, but all in vain. His movements, instead of aggressive, became abrupt and impatient, and his fingers clenched into fists every now and then, as if he were preparing to punch the forest itself for daring to confuse him.

He climbed a fallen tree and looked around, but saw only endless canopy. Somewhere deep inside, almost imperceptibly, something akin to uncertainty stirred. Not fear. Absolutely not. But a cold, sticky thought: "What if I get stuck here until nightfall? "