The canyon air was crisp, carrying the sharp bite of pine and wet stone, but Ryan felt only dread. He stood on the gravel bar beside Coldwater Creek, arms crossed, staring at the “raft” Maddie had spent the last hour assembling. Calling it a raft was generous. It looked like something a blind raccoon might cobble together during a particularly bad day: four inflated inner tubes lashed together with paracord, a couple of warped two-by-fours scavenged from the Jeep’s emergency kit serving as a deck, and a blue tarp stretched over the top like a sad attempt at dignity.
