Every Step of the Way

April 1, 2026

Boz was already wide awake when he heard barking outside. No one else in the crowded Winnebago stirred. It wasn’t the loud howling of some shadowy beast, but instead the tiny bark from a tiny nuisance that nonetheless would’ve woken Boz anyway.

It was a relief, honestly, after days of eating, drinking, smoking, and sleeping with the generous hosts who had opened their door to a total stranger. For someone like Boz, four lovely days of daring to believe he was allowed to settle was a lot.

But they had returned, like always. The trail was a forgiving yet jealous lover—and who was Boz to fight his path?

Boz dressed in a hurry and slipped into the cold night. Just beyond the campsite, a dozen yellow eyes watched from the dark.

Little horned puppies. Mongrels. Whelps.

One of them barked.

“I’m coming,” Boz hissed. “Be quiet.”

He pushed into the trees, letting them show the way. The ground was uneven, the path barely there—but Boz never hesitated. They knew exactly where the trail led and how to get him there.

By the time the sky began to brighten, the forest had thinned. His entourage led him up to a viewpoint just in time to watch the sun rise, and Boz forgot all about the RV and the world he’d left behind.

---

Each world had a different character. Here, the ground fell away to a lush valley of dark green pine trees. At the very bottom of the valley, a bright blue river traced out a ruler-straight line all the way from one horizon to the other. On the far side were tall mountains topped with dull grey peaks that curled up and over like the swirled tops of soft serve ice cream cones.

Each world had its own trail, too. Sometimes it was a logging road; other times the trail disappeared completely, and he could spend days finding it again. Once, it had been buried under inches of snow. Today the trail was a nice middle ground: a deer path, or whatever this world had instead of deer.

And it was heading downhill at a gentle slope. Thankfully, because the trail never let him backtrack.

---

The whelps started barking somewhere up ahead. Was it too much to hope for some wild game stuck in a tree, waiting for him? He approached as quietly as he could. The trail was just as likely to wander him right into this world’s version of a cougar.

Then he heard a voice:

“Get away! Stupid—Ah!”

At the center of a small clearing was a tall pine tree, and near the top a young boy dangled, his arms around an alarmingly bent branch and his shoes barely reaching another. A dozen or so whelps scrambled around the base of the tree, barking incessantly.

“What are you doing up there?!” Boz hollered over the noise. The boy was way, way up that tree.

“I—I wanted to climb this tree, but then these mongrels distracted me and I slipped. I’m actually a very good climber.”

“Uh huh. How long have you been up there?”

“Since morning.”

“You must be hungry.”

The branch under the boy’s feet cracked. He slipped, yelped, and barely caught himself. Now he was really dangling.

“I—Oh, shoot—I guess I am. A little. Do you have any food?”

“Lad—” Boz started.

The boy snapped, “I’m not coming down unless you share!”

Another crack. The branch broke between the boy’s clenched fists, leaving him dangling from one hand.

“I’m not stuck!” the boy yelled, panic in his voice. “I chose to climb up here!”

Boz kicked at the whelps circling the tree, trying to shoo them away.

“Damnit, boy! Stop playing and climb down!”

The boy cried, “I can!”

Boz dropped his backpack on the ground and reached for the lowest branch. “Hold still, I’m coming for you!”

He heard a yelp, several branches snapping, and a dull thud a few feet behind him.

Then silence. Even the whelps froze.

Boz crouched over him.

The boy stared back at Boz, eyes wide. He still had half a branch gripped in his fist.

He took a deep gasping breath—

Screwed up his face—

And started bawling.

---

“Easy. Slow down—don’t eat it too quickly!”

Even with a sprained wrist, the boy devoured Boz’s food in minutes.

Boz asked, “What’s your name?”

The boy took a big gulp of Boz’s drinking water, then burped. “You can call me Liam.”

Boz eyed the pack of whelps as they roughhoused.

Through his travels, Boz had watched whelps come and go. The trail seemed to recycle them: on some worlds they were familiar, like old friends; on others they were fresh faced and easily startled.

Today, Boz thought he recognized about half of them.

“Boy—”

“Liam.”

“Liam, where did you say you’re from?”

Liam told him.

“Never heard of that world.”

Liam scoffed. “It’s not the planet. Duh. It’s the town!” He tentatively pointed back where Boz came from. “Uh … It’s not that far. I tried going home, but I kept getting turned around.” Another gulp of water, then Liam added, “But I’m not lost!”

Oh, lords. Of all the vindictive, petty, passive-aggressive trail bullshit—

The boy wasn’t lost.

Boz had never met another wanderer before.

One of the whelps barked at them. The rest had tumbled ahead.

Liam sniffed. “Well? You have to take me home. It’s not far.”

Boz laughed. “Boy, you have no idea.”