The rain sheeted down upon them, so that even though the mother walked close to the son, close enough to touch, she could only glimpse him in blinked moments. They had been walking through the woods for a long time and had much farther to go. She was beyond tired, weary even, but didn’t dare stop. 

Already her son lagged behind, the cold rain plastering his t-shirt and jeans to his small frame making it harder to move. Only his plastic, primary-colored backpack wicked the water away. She couldn’t tell if he was crying, but if they were going to make it to the remote cabin, if they were going to make it all, she needed him to help. He was just barely too big to carry. 

She focused on the route, the next step. She thought briefly how it would be easier on her own, but the thought was fleeting, even though the guilt of it lingered. And in her guilt, she looked for him, but he wasn’t there. 

She didn’t dare shout his name because of what was surely following them —those twisted things, those new monsters, those leviathans, those who blotted out the sun— so she whispered it over and over, violently, into the trees. Her panic rose into her throat, closing it off, and soon she was just mouthing son, son, son. 

She found him maybe fifty yards back, huddled under the boughs of a blue spruce, knees pulled up to his chin. Before she could say anything, before she could rail against him, before she could shake him and ask why, he said, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m not strong like you. 

The mother let the rain wash over her and she didn’t bother to wipe it away from her face. She sat next to him, taking up the same posture. 

Did you know, she said, that where we’re going there are hundreds and hundreds of flowers, little white blooms, whole fields of Sweet Woodruff you can walk through like gentle clouds have come down to roost?

Her son didn’t say anything but at least he was looking at her again. 

Do you know what Sweet Woodruff smells like? He shook his head. Nothing. It doesn’t smell like anything, that is, until it is bruised. Then it gives off the most pleasant, earthy scent like sweet hay. Would you like to see a field like that?

She stood and offered him her hand, which he took, and they began again. It took a long time, with many detours, and she had to find him over and over, keep bringing him back, but eventually they made it to the cabin. There, the mother’s focus shifted to provisions, to defense, but before she started gathering her needed items, she stopped. 

He looked at her and she was surprised by what she saw in his eyes. 

He shrugged off his backpack and she understood why he kept leaving the trail. He pulled out flower after flower and pressed them into her hands. 

Just because the field doesn’t exist now, doesn’t it mean it never will, he said. 

She raised the flowers up so he couldn’t see her face and drew in a deep breath, pulling the aroma further and further into herself, saturating her bones, filled with its bruised scent.