It all began with a brief notification on his feed a grainy picture of a bloke, captioned Missing in the woods, need help. Arthur stared at the screen as if waiting for a sign. He was fortyeight, steady in his office job, had an adult son living in Manchester and a longstanding habit of minding his own business. Yet that evening something gnawed at him, as if the missing man were a relative. He finally gave in, clicked the link and messaged the searchteam coordinator, EthelAlert.
The reply was swift and polite, with a tidy list of instructions. In the newcomers chat they explained the plan: assemble at the edge of Littleton village by seven, bring a torch, some water, snacks and a warm jacket. Safety first, they reminded. Arthur folded an old tinny thermos of tea, a firstaid kit and a spare pair of socks into his backpack. A faint tremor ran through his fingers odd to feel part of something bigger than his usual routine.
At home the house was unusually quiet; the telly was off and the kitchen was scented with fresh loaf. A buzz from his phone reminded him of the meeting time. He wondered why he was heading out. Was it to test himself, to prove something to his son, or simply because he couldnt stand by? No clear answer surfaced.
Outside the sky was already turning a dusky blue. Cars on the A40 whisked their owners worries away. The evening chill nibbled at his jacket collar. The volunteers gathered with a mix of freshfaced twentysomethings and grizzled retirees. Ethel, a woman with a sharp bob, ran through the briefing: stay with the group, keep an ear on the radio, dont wander off. Arthur nodded along with the rest.
They set off along a low fence that skirted the woods. As twilight deepened the trees grew taller and denser; the villages birdsong faded into the rustle of leaves underfoot. Their torches cut swaths through damp grass and the occasional puddle left by earlier rain. Arthur kept himself somewhere in the middle of the line not at the front, not at the rear.
A nervous tension built with each step into the gloom. The forest had its own soundtrack twigs snapping, branches brushing, a sudden crack of a limb somewhere to the right. One volunteer joked about training for a marathon in a halfwhisper. Arthur stayed silent, listening to his own breathing; fatigue surged faster than his acclimatisation to the dark.
Every time Ethel halted the crew for a radio check, Arthurs heart thumped a little louder. He feared missing a signal or losing his bearings through a moments inattention. Yet the protocol held: short radio commands, roll call, a quick chat about the route someone suggested skirting the marshy ground on the right.
An hour later they were so deep that the village lights had vanished behind the trunks. Their torches only illuminated a small halo around their feet; beyond that lay an uninterrupted wall of shadow. Arthur felt his back sweat under the pack and his boots sink into the soggy undergrowth.
Suddenly Ethel raised her hand everyone froze. A soft voice drifted out of the darkness:
Is anyone there?
Lights swung to one spot where, crouched behind a bush, a frail figure sat. Arthur stepped forward with two other volunteers.
The glow revealed an elderly gentleman, gaunt, with silverthreaded temples and dirtstained hands. His eyes darted anxiously between the volunteers.
Are you Mr. Ivan Andreevich? Ethel asked quietly.
He shook his head.
No Im Peter I got lost earlier today my leg hurts I cant walk
A brief silence fell over the group theyd been hunting one missing man and found another. Ethel quickly buzzed the headquarters:
Found an elderly male, not our target. Require evacuation with stretcher at current coordinates.
While she sorted details, Arthur knelt beside the old man, pulled a blanket from his pack and draped it over Peters shoulders.
Been out here long? he whispered.
Since sunrise was after mushrooms lost the track and now this leg, Peter replied, his voice a mix of fatigue and relief.
Arthur realised the mission had taken a sharp turn: from searching to rescuing an unexpected stranger.
They examined Peters ankle swollen at the ankle, clearly unable to bear weight. Ethel instructed everyone to stay put until the main rescue team arrived with a stretcher.
Time trickled slowly; dusk surrendered to night. Arthurs phone showed a single bar, the radio sputtered as the cold drained its battery. Soon the connection vanished altogether. Ethel tried to call headquarters, to no avail. By protocol they were to remain where they were and flash their torches every five minutes.
For the first time Arthur was alone with his fear: the forest seemed denser, louder, every shadow a potential threat. Yet Peter shivered under the blanket, murmuring to himself, offering a strange comfort.
The volunteers formed a halfcircle, shared the remaining tea from Arthurs thermos, and handed Peter a sandwich from their rations. Arthur noted the old mans hands trembling hard from cold and exhaustion.
Never thought someone would find me thank you, Peter whispered.
Arthur watched him, feeling something shift inside fear gave way to a solid calm. He now had a purpose beyond his own safety: simply being there mattered more than any instruction manual.
The wind carried the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves; a distant owl hooted, making the night feel even longer.
They sat long enough that time lost its meaning. Peter talked about his childhood during the war, his late wife, and a son who rarely visited. In that exchange Arthur found more trust and humanity than in many of his recent encounters.
The radios red indicator flickered feebly. Arthur kept checking his phone, to no avail. He knew one thing: leaving was not an option.
When the first beam of a torch cut through the mist, Arthur halfexpected it to be another false alarm. But two figures in bright yellow jackets emerged, followed by a handful of people with a stretcher. Ethel called out Peters name, relief evident in her voice.
The volunteers quickly assessed Peters condition, taped a makeshift splint, and lifted him onto the stretcher. Arthur helped the lift, feeling his muscles strain yet oddly light the responsibility was now shared. A young volunteer winked, Hang in there, weve got you. Arthur returned the nod, speechless but grateful.
Ethel reported that radio contact had been restored half an hour earlier; headquarters had dispatched two teams one to them, another northward following fresh tracks of the originally missing man. She radioed: Team Twelve, elderly male ready for evacuation, stable condition, heading back. The crackle was followed by a clear voice: Primary target located by another crew, alive and on foot. All clear.
Arthur held his breath. Peter clutched his hand firmly as if not wanting to let go.
Thank you the old man breathed out, barely audible.
Arthur met his gaze and, for the first time that night, felt he was part of something important, not a random passerby.
The walk back was longer than it seemed in the dark. They alternated carrying the stretcher first the younger lads, then Arthur, feeling the grass tremble beneath his boots and the moist air chill his face. The forest began to echo with the first birdsong of dawn; a thrush flickered overhead. Each step brought back the familiar ache in his legs, but his mind stayed surprisingly tranquil.
At the edge of the woods, pale ribbons of fog lingered. The volunteers chatted in low tones, joking about nighttime fitness. Ethel stayed slightly ahead, checking the radio and marking the exit point for headquarters. Arthur stayed close to Peter, making sure the blanket didnt slip.
When the ambulance pulled up and the paramedics loaded Peter, Ethel thanked everyone in turn. She shook Arthurs hand a little tighter than the others.
Youve done more today than you imagined this morning, she said.
He felt a warm flush under her gaze but didnt look away. Inside, a subtle shift had occurred the line between his own troubles and others had thinned.
On the road back to Littleton, the gravel glistened with dew, his boots splashing through the grass. Pink streaks of sunrise split the grey sky above the thatched roofs. The air felt heavier with damp, yet his steps grew steadier.
The village greeted him with a hushed silence; a few dim windows flickered, and a handful of silhouettes drifted past the corner shop. He paused at his gate, slipped off his pack, and leaned against the fence for a moment. A light shiver ran through him part cold, part the nights lingering tension but it no longer felt like weakness.
His phone buzzed with a new message from Ethel: Thanks for the night. Below it, another: Can we count on you if we need help again? He typed back simply: Yes, of course.
Arthur reflected on how decisions that once seemed distant now sat squarely on his doorstep. Fatigue no longer clouded his clarity; he knew he could step forward again when called.
He lifted his head as the dawn spread wider, painting trees and rooftops with a rosy glow. In that moment he understood that being there, right then and there, answered the lingering question of his own worth. He was no longer a detached observer.
