It all began with a brief post on a social feed a photograph of a man, captioned: Missing in the woods, need help. Andrew stared at the screen as if waiting for a special sign. He was fortyeight, steady in his job at the local council, his adult son living in Manchester, and accustomed to keeping out of other peoples troubles. Yet that evening something shifted; the anxiety clung to him like a cold, as if the missing man were a relative. He finally clicked the link and wrote to the searchteam coordinator, EmilyAlert.
The reply came swiftly, courteous and to the point. In the novices group they outlined the plan gather at the edge of the village of Littleford by seven oclock, bring a torch, water, food, and warm clothing. Safety briefing was mandatory. Andrew packed his rucksack with care: an old thermos of tea, a firstaid kit, spare socks. A slight tremor ran through his fingers, unfamiliar with the feeling of belonging to something larger.
The house fell quiet: the television was off, the kitchen scented with fresh bread. He checked his mobile the coordinator had reminded him of the muster time. Andrew wondered why he was going. Was it to test himself, to prove something to his son, or simply because he could not stand aside? No answer surfaced.
Night was already deepening as he stepped outside. Cars on the A5 whisked away other worries. A chill brushed the collar of his jacket. The meeting with volunteers was restrained: faces both twenty years younger and a few years older than him. The coordinator, a woman with a neat bob, ran through the brief: stay with the group, listen to the radio, keep together. Andrew nodded along with the others.
The party moved toward the woods along a low stone wall. In the dusk the trees grew taller and denser; the edge of the village was already alive with the trill of birds and the rustle of leaves beneath their boots. Their torches cut swaths of light through damp grass and the occasional puddle left by an afternoon drizzle. Andrew kept himself in the centre of the line neither at the front nor at the rear.
Inside, unease grew with each step into the darkness each footfall a new threshold of fear. The forest sounded its own way branches scraping one another in the wind, a twig snapping to the right. Someone made a halfjoking comment about training for a marathon. Andrew stayed silent, listening to his own breath; fatigue rose faster than his comfort with the gloom.
Whenever the coordinator halted the group to test the radio, Andrews heart thumped louder. He feared missing a signal or losing his way through a moments inattention. Yet the routine held: short radio commands, rollcall, a quick discussion about the route one volunteer suggested skirting a marshy patch on the right.
After an hour they were so deep that the village lights had vanished behind the trunks. Their torches illuminated only a halo around their boots; beyond that lay an unbroken wall of shadow. Andrew felt his back sweat beneath the pack and his shoes grow soggy in the wet grass.
Suddenly the coordinator raised her hand all stopped. A soft voice drifted from the darkness:
Is anyone there?
Torches swung toward a thicket where a figure crouched. Andrew stepped forward with two other volunteers.
In the beam appeared an elderly man, thin, with silver hair at his temples and dirtstained hands. His eyes darted fearfully among the volunteers.
Are you John? the coordinator asked quietly.
The old man shook his head.
No Im Peter I got lost earlier today My leg hurts I cant walk
A brief hush fell over the group they had been searching for one person and had found another. The coordinator radioed the headquarters:
Found an elderly male, not our target, requires evacuation with stretcher at current coordinates.
While she clarified details, Andrew knelt beside Peter, pulled a blanket from his pack and tucked it over the mans shoulders.
Been out here long? Andrew asked in a low voice.
Since morning I was out for mushrooms then I lost the track and now my leg, Peter replied, his voice tinged with both fatigue and relief.
Andrew felt a shift in purpose the mission had changed in an instant: from searching to caring for someone no one expected to find today.
They examined Peters ankle swollen at the ankle, clearly unable to put weight on it. The coordinator ordered everyone to stay put until the main rescue team arrived with a stretcher.
Time stretched thin; dusk gave way to night. Andrews phone showed a single bar of signal, the radio sputtered as the cold drained its battery. Soon the connection faded completely. The coordinator tried again to reach headquarters, to no avail. By protocol they were to remain stationary and flash their torches every five minutes.
For the first time Andrew was alone with his fear: the forest grew louder, each shadow seemed a threat. Yet beside him, the old man shivered under the blanket, whispering softly to himself.
The volunteers formed a semicircle around Peter, shared the remaining tea from the thermos, and offered a simple sandwich from their rations. Andrew noticed the old mans hands trembling more from the cold than from injury.
Never thought someone would find thank you, Peter murmured.
Andrew watched him, a quiet change settling inside fear gave way to a steady calm. He realised his role was no longer just his own safety; staying close mattered more than any instruction or dread.
Wind gusts carried the scent of damp earth and rotting leaves; a nighttime chill settled on their clothing. Somewhere far off an owl hooted, making the darkness feel even longer.
They sat there until time lost its meaning. Andrew listened to Peters stories of his childhood during the war, of his late wife, of a son who rarely visited. In that exchange there was more trust and life than Andrew had found in many of his recent meetings.
The radios red light flickered weakly. Andrew checked his phone again and again, to no avail. He knew one thing: leaving was not an option.
When the first beam of torchlight cut through the mist between the trees, Andrew could not immediately accept it it seemed part of the endless waiting. Yet two figures in yellow vests emerged, followed by others carrying stretchers. The coordinator called out his name, relief evident in her voice as if they were rescuing more than just Peter.
The volunteers quickly assessed Peters condition, logged it on a paper sheet, strapped a splint to his ankle, and lifted him onto a stretcher. Andrew helped raise him, feeling his muscles work, yet a strange lightness accompanied the shared burden. A young man gave him a wink, Hang in there, itll be alright. Andrew returned the nod, words unnecessary.
The coordinator briefed them: the radio link had only just been restored; headquarters had dispatched two teams one to them, another northward following fresh tracks of the missing man. She radioed: Team Twelve, elderly male ready for evacuation, condition stable, returning. A crackle, then a clear voice: Primary target located by another unit, alive, on foot. All clear.
Andrew held his breath. Peter clutched his hand tightly on the stretcher, reluctant to let go.
Thank you the old man whispered, barely audible.
Andrew looked into his eyes and, for the first time that night, felt part of something significant rather than a passerby.
The trek back was longer than it had seemed in the dark. The stretcher was passed alternately first by the younger volunteers, then by Andrew himself, feeling the grass tremble beneath his boots and the cold air bite his face. Birds began to chirp faintly above, a thrush flashing past his line of sight. Each step returned the familiar ache to his body, yet his thoughts stayed unusually calm.
At the forest edge dawn broke in thin ribbons of mist. The volunteers whispered among themselves, debating evacuation details, one joking about nighttime fitness. The coordinator stayed slightly ahead, checking the radio, marking the exit point for headquarters. Andrew walked beside Peter all the way to the ambulance, ensuring the blanket stayed in place.
When the ambulance doors closed around Peter, the coordinator thanked each volunteer in turn. She shook Andrews hand a little tighter than the others:
Youve done more this night than you imagined this morning.
He felt a flush under her gaze but did not look away. Inside, a shift had occurred the line between his own concerns and others woes seemed thinner.
On the road back to the village, the path felt different: the gravel glistened with dew, his boots splashed through the damp grass. Pink streaks of sunrise tore through the grey sky above the thatched roofs. The air was heavy with moisture and fatigue, yet his stride grew steadier.
The village greeted him with a hush: windows still dark, only a few silhouettes flickered at the corner shop. He paused at his gate, set his pack down, leaned against the fence for a moment. A light tremor ran through him from the cold and the nights strain, but it no longer felt like weakness.
He pulled out his phone; a new message glowed on the screen from the coordinator: Thank you for the night. Below it read, Can we count on you again if needed? Andrew typed a short reply: Yes, gladly.
He reflected: before, such choices had seemed remote, beyond his reach. Now everything appeared altered. Weariness no longer clouded his clarity; he knew he could step forward again.
He lifted his head as the sunrise unfolded, bathing the trees and rooftops in a rosy glow. In that moment he understood that his involvement here and now answered the lingering question of his own worth. He was no longer a distant observer.
