Bear Track State of Mind

My legs burned like I'd been running through lava, which honestly would've been preferable to this. Three miles into practice, and Coach Miller was already on my case about my form.

"Chin up, Maya! You're running like you're carrying something heavy!"

I wasn't. But my backpack was. Inside: another lunch my mom had packed with military precision. Spinach wrap. Again. Because apparently being the team's fastest distance runner meant I needed to fuel like a rabbit preparing for winter marathon.

"It's packed with iron!" she'd insisted that morning, all bright-eyed and convinced she was being supportive. What she didn't get was that sixteen-year-olds didn't want to eat lunch that made them look like they were trying too hard. Especially not in the cafeteria where Tyler from varsity soccer definitely watched me struggle with leafy greens falling everywhere.

The trail curved ahead, and I saw it before my brain could process what I was seeing. A bear. An actual freaking bear, standing there like it owned the place. It was a black bear, maybe 300 pounds of fur and muscle and oh-shit-realization that this forest wasn't just scenery for my training montage.

It looked at me. I looked at it.

Time did that slow-motion thing where every thought echoes like it's underwater. I remembered everything from sophomore year bio—black bears climb trees, grizzlies don't, playing dead is for brown bears, don't run from black bears unless—unless what? I couldn't remember the unless part because my body had already decided to ignore all expert advice.

My legs moved before my brain caught up. I was sprinting, trees blurring, breath ripping through my throat, every shadow looking like teeth and claws. I didn't stop until I hit the parking lot, collapsing against Coach's SUV while my lungs tried to remember how oxygen worked.

Coach stared at me like I'd grown a second head. "Maya? You okay? You look like you saw a ghost."

"Bear," I gasped, clutching my backpack like it contained the nuclear codes. "There was a—"

He laughed. "Yeah, right. Nice one."

But then his radio crackled. Dispatch reporting a bear sighting on the north trail. Coach's face went from amused to oh-crap real fast.

That night at dinner, my mom asked about practice. I told her everything—about the bear, about running for my life, about how I'd never felt more alive or terrified in my entire existence.

She went full Mom Mode, eyes wide with exactly the horrified reaction I'd expected.

"You could've been KILLED, Maya! What were you thinking, running out there alone?"

"I wasn't alone, Coach was—"

"That doesn't count!" She pushed her chair back, pacing the tiny kitchen. "That's it. No more solo training. I'm calling Principal Davies tomorrow."

"Mom, NO."

"Yes! I don't care if it makes me the lamest parent in school history. You could've died, Maya. Over RUNNING?"

I looked down at my plate. Mom had made pasta, but there was a salad on the side. A big, green, spinach-filled salad.

"Fine," I said, not meeting her eyes. "But I'm still eating the spinach."

She stopped pacing. "What?"

"The spinach. You were right. I need the fuel."

My mom stared at me, then started laughing. That weird, half-hysterical laugh parents do when they're relieved and annoyed at the same time.

"You're impossible," she said, sitting back down. "But I love you. Even if you're reckless and annoying and absolutely impossible."

"Love you too, Mom. Even if you pack rabbit food."

Something shifted between us then. Maybe it was almost dying. Maybe it was realizing parents worry because they love you, not because they want to control every aspect of your existence. Or maybe it was just that I'd survived a bear encounter and suddenly, spinach didn't seem like such a big deal to complain about.

That night, I dreamed about running through the forest. The bear was there, but it wasn't chasing me. We were just running together, side by side, like we were both exactly where we were supposed to be.