It all starts with a short post on the feed a photograph of a man, captioned: Missing in the woods, need help. Alex Turner stares at the screen as if waiting for a sign. Hes fortyeight, has a steady job, a grownup son living in Manchester and a habit of staying out of other peoples trouble. Yet tonight a knot of anxiety settles in his chest, as if the missing person were a relative. He clicks the link and messages the searchteam coordinator, LizAlert.
The reply comes straight away, polite and clear. In the newcomers chat they outline the plan meet at the edge of Littleton village by seven, bring a torch, water, food and warm clothes. Safety briefing first, they stress. Alex packs his rucksack methodically: an old thermos of tea, a firstaid kit, spare socks. A faint tremor runs through his fingers, unfamiliar with being part of something larger.
The house feels quieter: the TV is off, the kitchen smells of fresh bread. He checks his phone the coordinator has nudged the meeting time. Alex wonders why hes going. To test himself? To prove something to his son? Or simply because he cant stand by? No answer comes.
Outside its already dusk. Cars on the motorway whisk away other worries. The evening chill brushes his jacket collar. The volunteers gather, a mixed lot some twenty years younger, some older. The coordinator, a woman with a cropped haircut, delivers the briefing fast: stay with the group, listen to the radio, keep together. Alex nods along with the rest.
They set off along a low fence, the trees growing taller and denser as twilight deepens. The edge of the village carries the chirp of crickets and the rustle of leaves underfoot. Torches cut patches of light through damp grass and the occasional puddle left by an afternoon shower. Alex stays near the centre of the line not at the front, not at the back.
Inside, tension builds with each step into darkness each new footfall a fresh notch of fear. The woods have their own voice branches scraping one another in gusts, a twig snapping to the right. Someone jokes about a marathon training run in a halfwhisper. Alex stays silent, listening to his own breath: fatigue rises faster than his comfort with the gloom.
Whenever the coordinator pauses to check the radio, Alexs heart thumps louder. He fears a missed signal or losing the trail through inattention. Yet everything follows protocol: short radio commands, roll call, discussion of the route one volunteer suggests skirting the marshy patches on the right.
After about an hour theyre so deep the village lights have vanished behind trunks. Their torches illuminate only a circle around their boots; beyond that a wall of shadow looms. Alex feels his back sweat under the pack and his boots sink into the soggy grass.
Suddenly the coordinator raises a hand; the group freezes. A soft voice cuts through the night:
Is anyone there?
The torches swivel to a single spot where a crouched figure is hidden in the underbrush. Alex steps forward with two other volunteers.
A frail old man emerges into the beam thin, silvertempled, hands stained with earth. His eyes dart, wide with panic.
Are you Mr. Ivan? the coordinator asks quietly.
He shakes his head.
No Im Peter. Got lost this morning my leg hurts I cant walk.
A brief pause settles over the group: they were looking for one person and have found another. The coordinator fires a radio call:
Found an elderly male, not our target, require stretcher evacuation at current coordinates.
While the base confirms details, Alex kneels beside Peter, pulls a blanket from his pack and drapes it over the mans shoulders.
Been out here long? Alex whispers.
Since dawn was mushroompicking then the path slipped away now this leg.
Peters voice carries fatigue and relief in equal measure. Alex realises the mission has shifted in an instant: from searching to caring for someone no one expected to find today.
They examine Peters ankle; its swollen, clearly unable to bear weight. The coordinator orders everyone to stay put until the main rescue team arrives with stretchers.
Time crawls as twilight gives way to night. Alexs phone shows a single bar, the radio sputters, its battery draining faster in the cold. Eventually the radio dies completely. The coordinator tries the base again no answer. By protocol they must remain where they are and flash their torches every five minutes.
For the first time Alex is alone with fear: the surrounding woods thicken, every shadow feels like a threat. Yet beside him the old man shivers under the blanket, murmuring to himself. The volunteers form a loose circle, share the remaining tea from the thermos, hand Peter a sandwich from their rations. Alex notes the old mans hands trembling harder from cold and exhaustion.
Never thought someone would find me thank you, Peter says. Alex watches him in silence; something inside shifts dread gives way to a solid calm. He now bears responsibility not just for himself but for staying beside another.
The wind carries the smell of wet earth and rotting leaves; a distant owl hoots, stretching the night further. They sit so long the concept of time fades. Alex listens to Peters stories childhood during the war, his late wife, a son who seldom visits. In that exchange lies more trust and life than Alex has felt in many years.
The radios dim red light flickers uselessly. Alex checks his phone again and again, to no avail. He knows one thing: leaving is not an option.
When a thin beam of torchlight finally pierces the fog between the trees, Alex cant immediately believe it it feels like the end of an endless wait. Two figures in yellow jackets step out, followed by more people carrying stretchers. The coordinator calls out a name, relief evident in her voice as they rush to help.
The volunteers quickly assess Peters condition, check a paper form, splint his ankle and lift him onto a stretcher. Alex helps hoist him, feeling his muscles strain yet also a strange lightness the load is now shared. A young volunteer winks at him, Hang in there, weve got this. Alex nods, words unnecessary.
The coordinator gives a brief update: the radio came back half an hour ago, headquarters has dispatched two teams one to them, another northward following fresh tracks of the missing man. She radios, Team Twelve, elderly male located, stable, returning. A crackle follows, then a clear voice: Primary target found by another crew, alive and on foot. All units, stand down.
Alex holds his breath. Peter grips his hand tightly on the stretcher, as if unwilling to let go.
Thank you, Peter breathes, barely audible.
Alex meets his gaze and, for the first time that night, feels part of something important rather than a mere passerby.
The walk back feels longer than it was in the dark. They rotate the stretcher the younger volunteers take turns, then Alex grabs the handles, feeling the grass tremble beneath their boots and the damp air bite his face. Birdsong begins to rise; a thrush darts overhead. Each step returns his body to its familiar fatigue, but his mind stays oddly tranquil.
At the forests edge dawn squeezes low, thin ribbons of mist lingering. Volunteers whisper about evacuation details, one jokes about a nighttime fitness session. The coordinator stays ahead, checking the radio and marking the exit point for headquarters. Alex walks beside Peter until the ambulance arrives, making sure the blanket stays in place.
When the ambulance doors close, the coordinator thanks everyone in turn. She grips Alexs hand a little tighter than the others.
Youve done more today than you imagined this morning.
He feels a flush under her gaze but doesnt look away. Inside, a shift has occurred the line between his own worries and others has thinned.
On the drive back to the village the road feels different: wet gravel glistens with dew, boots splash through grass. Pink streaks of sunrise tear through the grey sky above the rooftops. The air is heavy with moisture and tiredness, yet his step steadies.
The village greets him with quiet; windows are still dark, only a few silhouettes flicker at the shops bus stop. Alex reaches his gate, drops his pack, leans against the fence for a moment. A slight shiver runs through him from the cold and the nights strain, but it no longer feels like weakness.
He pulls out his phone: a new message from the coordinator lights up Thanks for tonight. Below it, another: Can we count on you again if needed? Alex replies shortly, Yes, absolutely.
He reflects that decisions which once seemed distant now feel within reach. Fatigue no longer clouds his clarity; he knows he can step forward again when called.
He lifts his head as the sunrise spreads wider, painting trees and roofs with a rosy glow. In that instant he understands that being present and involved is his answer to the question of his own worth. He is no longer an idle observer.
