Chapter 3 — Oliver’s Whistle
The rescue team descended slowly.
Alex stayed near Sarah.
Every few minutes, Ranger Cole called:
“Oliver!”
Then listened.
Finally:
WHISTLE. WHISTLE. WHISTLE.
Closer this time.
Sarah started crying again.
“That’s his whistle.”
Oliver always carried a small orange emergency whistle on his backpack.
His grandfather had taught him the universal distress signal during family hikes.
Three blasts.
Wait.
Three again.
“He’s doing exactly what he’s supposed to,” Cole said over the radio.
Then the rescue team saw him.
Oliver was sitting on a narrow rocky shelf approximately seventy feet below the overlook.
His left knee was scraped.
One shoe was missing.
But he was conscious.
And alive.
The red jacket had caught on vegetation above him when he slid.
Two rescuers secured him in a harness.
Almost forty minutes later, Oliver was brought back to the overlook.
Sarah wrapped both arms around him.
“Why did you go down there?”
Oliver was shaking.
“I didn’t mean to.”
“Why did you go through the gate?”
Oliver looked confused.
“It was already open.”
Cole crouched beside him.
“Did you see anyone open it?”
Oliver nodded.
Everyone went silent.
“Who?”
Oliver pointed toward the crowd.
Dean stiffened.
But Oliver wasn’t pointing at him.
His finger moved past Dean.
Toward a younger man standing near a pine tree.
Camera bag over one shoulder.
Dark blue cap.
Oliver whispered:
“That man.”
The man immediately said:
“He’s mistaken.”
Cole stood.
“What’s your name?”
“Mason Keene.”
“Did you open that gate?”
Mason shook his head.
“No.”
Oliver looked at him.
“Yes, you did.”