Headphones on, gazing far out into the horizon, the tops of the Adirondacks at her feet, flowing out into the valley like waves, going for miles. He was behind her. Her father had fallen on the path up to this point. He had clutched his chest and complained of shooting pains down the arm, but she hadn't listened. She was at that age, the precipice of adulthood teetering before her, and she was certain she no longer needed to listen to her father, not about this, not about anything. But when they reached the crest of the hill, she looked back at him, but he wasn't there. He was a few feet into the woods, just before they broke into the clearing, lying there, his breathing shallow, his tongue hanging out of his mouth.

"Dad?" she called. "Dad!"

No answer. And nobody else on the trail, maybe nobody else for an hour or so. She dragged him into the clearing and laid him down on a rock. She had forgotten her phone at home, but she had remembered her music player, and the headphones. She turned away from him, put the music on as loud as she dared (he always used to yell at her about that), and stared into the horizon. She'd stay here until she had to decide what to do next.