LIKE BYRD AND FRANKLIN, we took the easy way to All-Pack’s meeting place in the end. Well, not quite as easy. After all, we were three young women lacking season-appropriate clothing—lacking any clothing—alone on the National Seashore.
But we made do. Two-legged, we jogged back up the beach in search of the vacationers I’d so recently terrified, catching up to the family just before they packed away their cooler and fishing gear into a sleek, white minivan and took off for parts unknown.
“Ma’am?” Ginger called, half hidden by the bushes.
The mother turned, still on edge from her recent near miss with a bloodthirsty wolf. Unlike her husband and son, the female’s instincts were on high alert, the hairs on the back of her neck raised as she tried to find the source of the unexpected voice.
