By the third day, rain swept through the forest. Lucas shivered under makeshift shelter constructed from branches and leaves. “Dad would tell me to keep moving,” he murmured, though doubt pressed heavily against hope. He spoke aloud just to hear a human voice, even if it was his own.
On the fourth day, he heard something distant. A helicopter. Lucas leapt to his feet, waving his bright red hoodie above his head. “I’m here!” he screamed until his chest ached. The helicopter circled but did not descend.
When the sound faded, despair hit harder than hunger. Lucas sank to the ground, sobbing openly for the first time. “Please,” he whispered to the empty forest. “Please find me.” Yet even in that breaking moment, something stubborn remained inside him.
He gathered sticks and arranged them in a large X on a clearing of exposed rock, remembering a documentary he once watched about survival signals. His hands were small, but his determination was not.
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