The Mountain Trek

The firefly danced around the old cottage that sat on the mountain at treeline. Richard Robertson dragged himself toward it. Pine needles and dirt stuck to his damp clothing. Overcome with heat, he longed for a bottle of cold water or any water at all. He’d lost the supplies in his backpack when he’d slid into the rushing stream. His mask dangled from his right ear. He knew he should wear it to keep the bugs out of his mouth and nose, but the afternoon heat had made it difficult to breathe through it. He swatted ineffectually at the bugs at his face. He thought it was strange for a cottage to be this far up the mountain, but he was happy to find it. Sweat dripped into his eyes and lethargy overcame him. The porridge he’d eaten that morning had long since left his stomach which growled again. He ducked as a large red bird zoomed by. He wavered on his unsteady feet and slumped at the foot of the pine tree. He fell into his last sleep mere feet from the cottage door.