I nodded, my chin wobbling, my eyes filling with tears.

“And stop being so pitiful.” He said this harshly, right before he pulled me into a hug-and-hold.

***

I was shoved out of the house, but only after Billy supervised me doing my hair and putting on my makeup. He also picked out my clothes.

He justified all of this overbearing behavior by saying, “We are all worried about you.”

For some reason, this worked. I was discovering that my brothers’ concern for me was my kryptonite. Maybe I’d run away from them and Tennessee eight years ago out of an instinctual need for self-preservation and a desire to become someone else. They—as a group or individually—could effortlessly wrap me around their index, ring, or pinky finger.

Or maybe I was just feeling markedly overwhelmed, tired, and hungry, and was currently in a state of high suggestibility. Getting dressed, putting on makeup, and doing my hair all felt like going through the motions. I lacked the energy to care.

Whichever the case—dressed in jeans that were now a little baggy, a Mumford and Sons concert T-shirt, and converse sneakers—I was sent on my way. I was soon on the road to the backwoods ranger station; my mission was to give Jethro his provisions backpack.

I mostly knew where I was going. The twists and turns of the mountain road, along with the energy and focus required to navigate them, proved a great distraction. I was almost disappointed when I pulled into the makeshift parking lot for the small outpost cabin.

Billy had explained that this particular ranger station was a one-room cabin set on a hill. You parked at the base of the hill then walked a tenth of a mile (up the hill) to the cabin.

It was a beautiful day, and I briefly wondered what month it was. I decided, counting back two weeks, that it must be the middle of September. The air was still August hot and the ground was slippery from a morning rainstorm. I had to navigate the incline slowly, paying special attention to avoid the particularly muddy areas.

Halfway up the hill I felt the ground tremble in the same way it does when a galloping horse approaches. I stopped and surveyed the clearing.

Then I heard it.

Something was crashing through the forest. And it was large enough to make the earth vibrate. Before I could tell my feet to run, I saw it.

It was a black bear—quite possibly the largest black bear in the Great Smoky Mountains National Forest—and it was running right for me.

I gasped, horrified, even as I quickly calculated my chances of reaching the ranger station before the bear reached me. Those chances were a big, fat zero.

I did the only thing I could think of and what all children growing up at the edge of the wilderness are instructed to do if cornered by a bear in the woods.

I fell to the ground and played dead.

The muddy, wet ground seeped through my jeans and T-shirt. I tried to breathe and lay limp, but I couldn’t. I held my breath, my body taut with the anticipation of becoming a bear snack.

As a rule, black bears don’t eat people; not even the big, four hundred pound male bears like this one. They’re typically shy and only venture out at dawn and dusk. Usually they’re hanging out in trees, taking naps, and munching on berries.

So it made no sense for this creature to be running out of the forest at 2:00 p.m. on a Tuesday. He was plowing toward me like I was the last ripe berry bush of the season or a basket of fish.

I felt him thundering toward me as I played dead.

As I played dead….

What are you doing?! Some part of me demanded. Get up get up get up get up!

I opened my eyes, stared at the ground. A little voice that was growing louder with each ground tremble commanded that I face the end of my story rather than hide from it and play dead. Hadn’t I done that enough? How much of my life was going to be about escape?

In a flash I remembered an article I’d read about a hiker who scared off a grizzly bear by standing tall and holding his jacket over his head; in essence it made him appear just as big as the grizzly.

Obviously driven insane by the pathetic notion of dying while playing dead, I jumped to my feet, grabbed the bottom of my shirt, and pulled it up and over my head as I faced the bear. It was close now; I could hear the labored breathing of the beast. I forced myself to open my eyes, and did so just in time to see it veer slightly off its original course. I tensed as it galloped less than two feet from where I stood like a mental patient with my shirt over my head.

That’s right. The bear ran past me like I wasn’t even there.

La-di-da, if you please.

And it kept on running, all the way to the other side of the clearing and into the wilderness beyond. I strained my ears, still holding my breath, and listened to the sounds of it crashing through the forest as the reverberations beneath my feet receded.

I twisted and looked over my shoulder, staring at the spot where it had disappeared into the woods.

“Oh my God!” I shrieked, looking to the left and right, followed by a startled, disbelieving, very hysterical laugh. “Oh my God, I just did that.” My legs gave way and I fell down, my bare back—save for the scrap of my bra strap—hitting the muddy ground with full force, and I breathed in the smell of the earth.

I didn’t care that I was caked in dirt and mud and grass stains. Nor did I care that my hair was damp and my body was sweatacular and sticky from adrenaline.

I was just happy to be alive with all of my appendages in place and not a scratch on me.

Then, I heard another noise, and I froze. It was a snarl. In comparison to the thunderous bear, it was a subtle sound. But the snarl caused a new wave of cold fear to twist in my stomach before crawling up my spine, because I recognized what the sound meant.

Slowly, I sat up and realized that the bear wasn’t running toward anything. The bear was running away from the rabid raccoon currently eyeing me with madness.

I screamed and jumped to my feet just as the tiny raccoon, its mouth foaming, sprinted out of the forest and into the clearing.

“Raccoon! Rabid raccoon!!” I yelled, running uphill to the ranger station. “RACCOON!!!”

The moment was both terrifying and preposterous. I hadn’t run from the four-hundred-pound black bear, but I was running from a rabid, smaller-than-average raccoon.

I hollered, “COOOOON!!!” but then grimaced, the hyper-civilized part of my brain shaking its head in severe judgment for using that word in any context.

I found I was gripping Jethro’s backpack of provisions in one hand and my shirt in the other; so I ripped open the bag and started throwing anything I could find at the rodent—my shirt, Jethro’s thermos, water filter, a bag of walnuts, underwear—all the while screaming, “RACCOON!!”

The little devil would not be deterred. It just kept coming and snarling and foaming. I tripped on something and fell, my arms bracing against stones, my teeth banging together with a jarring click, causing me to accidentally bite my tongue.

The iron taste of blood filled my mouth as my hands searched for something, anything to hold off the raccoon. I found a rock and threw it at the varmint, then another, and another.

In desperation, I screamed, “HELP ME! BEAR! BEAR!!”—deciding that the word bear would break through to anyone within earshot in a way that raccoon might not.

I clipped the little beast with heavy stone, confusing the animal for a few precious seconds, and launched to my feet. My hands were scraped; my arms scratched, bruised, and muddy; my jeans soaked through, but I launched myself up the rest of the hill, sprinting until I was sure my chest would explode.

When I was thirty feet from the cabin, I glanced over my shoulder and found the raccoon a mere five feet away. Reacting on instinct, I roared, turned, planted my left foot on the ground, and administered a swift goalie kick to the small raccoon in a way that would have made my high school soccer coach proud.

The raccoon sailed thirty or so feet down the hill then rolled another few feet. Apparently, it didn’t require much recovery time, because it immediately started back up the hill in mad pursuit.

I heard the door to the ranger station open behind me. I turned and began sprinting to the safety of the cabin, paying no heed to Drew’s bewildered and stunned expression.

“Ash? What the…?”

Without explaining or thinking, I reached for Drew’s gun, withdrew it, flicked off the safety, turned, aimed, and shot the raccoon.

I’d like to say that it only took one shot, but that would be a lie. I emptied the entire magazine and pressed the trigger several more times after all the bullets were spent. Some of the shots missed, some didn’t.

Take-home message:

Rabid Raccoon: zero.

Ashley Winston: still alive and rabies free.

I stood, gun in hand, breathing hard, staring at the ground in the distance for an indeterminate period. Adrenaline waned, my heart slowed, and my body began to shake.

“Ash…?”

The sound of Drew saying my name startled me, and I jumped. Before I could make any other movements, his arm wrapped around my middle, strong and solid, and brought my back against his chest. His free hand reached for the gun. Gently, he took it, holstered it, and shuffled us backward.

I noted that he kicked the door closed with his booted foot and moved us farther into the cabin. Unexpectedly, my knees failed me and I sagged. Also unexpectedly, Drew swung me into his arms and carried me to a faded red and white checked couch. Even more unexpectedly, instead of placing me on the couch, he sat and cradled me on his lap.