I followed the dirt lane around the final bend and a feeling of relief flooded through me when I saw the cabin. The sight of the rustic building sitting among the aspen and pine trees was a welcomed sight. The weather-beaten wooden door beckoned us to enter and rest.

The long hike up the mountain had taken a toll. My legs ached and the heel of my right foot had developed a blister from my new cross-trainers. Mom, Dad and my little sister Claire trailed behind me.

"Thank goodness," Mom sighed. "I'm not sure that I could walk another foot."

"I'll go and open the door," I volunteered.

Ever since I can remember, my family traveled to the Colorado Rockies to vacation in the family's mountain cabin. The property has been in my Dad's family for generations. His great, great grandfather had mined for silver and gold in the late 1800s. The cabin had been his home and was passed down through the generations. Dad spent many summers here, hiking, fishing and exploring the wilderness. Mom and Dad had honeymooned here and return for two weeks every summer.

On our way up the mountain, halfway between the cabin and civilization, our SUV overheated and the motor seized. We decided to hike to the cabin where Dad could call the Ranger Station on the short-wave radio for help. The hike had taken us all day. I'm sure if it had been just me and Dad, we could have done it faster, Mom and Claire slowed us down.

The air in the cabin was stale and thick with dust. "Phew," Mom threw opened the windows to let in the afternoon breeze.

"I'll go get some water and gather some kindling for the fire," I said as I headed out the door.

When I returned, Mom and Claire were in the kitchen making dinner and putting away the few supplies that we had been able to carry with us. Dad had uncovered the short-wave radio and was muttering a prayer under his breath that the battery still held a charge. He turned the knob, moving from one wavelength to the next hoping to connect with someone from the outside.

The radio squawked as he dialed through the different frequencies. I hovered near his elbow, waiting in silence. He continued to turn the dial moving through the channels slowly. Everyone froze when the sound of a child's voice came through the speaker.

"Help me. Please help. Can anybody hear me?" the small sad voice filled the cabin.

Mom moved to stand behind Dad and placed her hand on his shoulder, "John who's that?"

"This is Trapper Tate. What's your handle? Come back," Dad spoke into the hand-held microphone.

"I want to go home. Can anybody hear me?"

"I can hear you. What's your name son?" Dad asked.

"Brendan."

"How old are you Brendan?"

"Seven. I want my mommy."

"Where are you Brendan?" Dad asked.

"I don't know. Can you take me home?" he sobbed.

"Brendan, don't cry. Where are your parents?"

"I don't know. I got lost," he replied.

"Brendan, what's your full name?"

"Brendan … Fulton.

"Dad, that's the little boy that went missing," I said. "Remember we saw the Amber Alert when we were driving on the freeway near Denver."

"Oh my!" Mom gasped. She had also seen that name written across the headline in the newspaper this morning.

"Brendan, can you tell me the color of the building you are in?"

"It's red."

"Do you know where the cabin is located?"

"It's by a lake," Brendan responded.

"What can you see when you look outside the cabin?"

"A big tree with green leaves by the lake," Brendan replied.

"That's good Brendan. Anything else?"

"There's a row boat on the dock."

"Okay. What else can you see?"

"A big gray rock on the other side of the lake."

"Okay Brendan, I'll need to change the channel on the radio to get some help. Hang in there. I'll call you back as soon as I get in touch with the Forest Rangers. Okay?"

"Okay," Brendan replied meekly.

Dad turned the dial and each time the static subsided he would speak into the mike, "This is Trapper Tate, come in, over." But his efforts seemed to no avail. He couldn't raise a soul. He'd been at it for over an hour and I could tell that he was getting really tired out -- his voice was tight and his hair was standing on end from running his fingers through it. Every few minutes he would check in with Brendan to make sure that he was alright.

"You'd better have something to eat. Jake can take over for a few minutes." Mom had thrown together a dinner from the scant supplies.

Reluctantly Dad handed me the mike and I continued the routine. "This is Trapper Tate II, come in, over." I moved the dial one notch, "This is Trapper Tate II, come in, over."

"Trapper Tate II, this is Ranger Station. Come back."

Instantly Dad was at my side. I handed the mike to him and he explained the situation to the Rangers. Once a plan was in place, Dad tuned the radio back to the frequency that Brendan was on.

"Brendan, the Rangers will be there very, very soon."

"Can't they come now?" he asked.

"They will be there shortly to take you home. You'll get to go for a ride in a helicopter. Do you think that you can be a brave boy until then?"

"I guess so," he replied in a meek little voice.

"I'll check with you in a few minutes. Okay."

"Can't you stay on with him?" Mom asked.

"I'm worried about using up all of the battery power. The Rangers will fly in and survey the area, from the description that Brendan gave, they think that he's in a cabin at the old abandoned silver mine near Crooked Creek."

"Did the Rangers say that they would get in touch with Brendan's parents?" Mom wanted to know.

"They are already at the Ranger's station. Apparently Brendan wandered off during a family picnic yesterday. They've been searching for him frantically all night. If everything goes well, Brendan will be reunited with his parents before sundown."

"Thank goodness," Mom sighed with relief. "I don't know what I'd do if that happened to one of our children. Did the Rangers say that they would be able to help us too?"

The Rangers would have one more save to make. In the fracas, Dad had forgotten that we needed help too. With a look of dismay, he turned back to the short-wave radio, "This is Trapper Tate, come in Ranger Station. Ranger Station, come back…"

The End

Kerry Hodgson lives in Toronto, Ontario and works in marketing to pay the bills. She began writing short stories after completing a night school writing course. Kerry still meets weekly with two former members of this class to drink tea and to hone their writing skills. She refers to the group affectionately as "the writing ladies".

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