Unseen paths: The journey begins.
The Road to the Border
The horsebox door slammed shut. Just like that, Nico and Neila were gone.
I didn’t step outside. Didn’t watch them leave.
What would have been the point?
It wasn’t anger that sat with me—it was clarity. The hag had played her game well. She had forced my hand with the horses, and now she was circling Jeb and Charlie.
That was the line.
Losing the horses had been hard, but I could justify it. They’d be fine where they were going. Jeb and Charlie, though? That was different. They weren’t just animals I cared for—they were family and, her intentions were far more deadly.
The decision wasn’t made out of pride or stubbornness. It was survival. I had lived this way for 18 years, refining what the military first taught me. Now, I’d use every skill I had to disappear.
The first goal was simple: 100 kilometres to the Lithuanian border, through forest and country tracks. I gave myself three days—40km on the first, then 30 per day after that.
It was winter. That was both an advantage and a risk.
The first stretch was easy enough. Hard-packed snow made for solid footing, and the cold wasn’t biting yet. Jeb trotted ahead, alert but relaxed. Charlie, legs too short to keep pace for long, took his usual place draped over my shoulders like a living scarf.
I moved fast, keeping the rhythm I’d drilled into myself over years of walking. Breaks were short—just enough to sip from the thermos, to let the dogs rest without cooling down too much.
But by nightfall, the world shifted.
A thaw rolled in overnight. The change was sudden, the way winter sometimes plays tricks. Snow turned to slush, ice to sucking mud. Everything wet, everything seeping. My boots, my gloves, my pack. The kind of wet that doesn’t just chill you—it steals heat from the inside out.
By morning, the world was a swamp. I pushed on, but every step was a battle. Waterlogged ground clung to my boots. Trees dripped constantly, sending icy trickles down my collar. The damp had weight—it slowed movement, sapped energy.
And then, just as suddenly, winter came back.
The temperature plunged. Water turned solid mid-step. The slush that had soaked everything now locked into place, freezing stiff fabric, turning boots into ice blocks. My gloves cracked as I flexed my fingers.
It was dangerous in a different way now. Slippery, brittle. Any fall could end in a twisted ankle, or worse, hypothermia if I stayed down too long. I kept moving, pacing myself, focusing on balance.
That was when I found the house.
A crumbling shell, long abandoned. No roof, but four walls still standing. Enough of a break from the wind to set up a fire, dry out what I could.
It should have been a quiet night. It wasn’t.
The dogs came at dusk.
Five of them, lean and moving as a pack. Not wild, but not tame either—village dogs that had learned to fend for themselves. Their movements were measured, confident. They weren’t charging, but they weren’t afraid.
Jeb stiffened, a growl rumbling low in his throat. Charlie pressed against my leg, small but aware.
The pack spread out, cutting off escape. They weren’t attacking—not yet. They were testing. Weighing their odds.
I squared up. Took a step forward. My voice cut through the frozen air, sharp and unwavering.
“Fuck off.”
For a moment, they hesitated. Five pairs of eyes locked onto mine. A silent decision was made.
And then, just like that, they turned and melted into the night.
Jeb let out a breathy huff. Charlie leaned harder against my leg. I exhaled too, rolling my shoulders, shaking off the tension.
We stayed in that ruin for the night. Not out of fear—just practicality. A fire, some warmth, a moment to recalibrate.
By morning, we were moving again. The border was still ahead, the road still long. But we weren’t stopping. Not now.
Not ever.
By the third day, my body felt like it had been used for football practice. My left hip ached, stiff from the cold and the miles. My phone was dead, leaving me to rely on scribbled notes for navigation.
I came across a lumberjack camp—three caravans, heavy-duty machinery, and the hum of generators. As I approached, the stress of the earlier dog confrontation must have still been sitting with Jeb because he suddenly turned on Charlie. No cause. No warning. Maybe exhaustion, maybe lingering tension. But once attacked, Charlie fought back. He was smaller, but he wasn’t going down without a fight.
I lunged between them, kicking Charlie away while I grabbed Jeb and tethered him to a tree. Charlie was still snarling, not ready to let it go, but I had to separate them.
I needed to charge my phone. In broken Russian, I asked one of the lumberjacks, and he motioned toward the back of his van. As the battery climbed back to life, I knelt beside Charlie and checked the damage. His little body trembled, his breathing shallow, his eyes darting between me and Jeb. His neck was raw where Jeb had latched onto him. The punctures weren’t deep, but the bruising already ran deep under his fur. I worked quickly, my fingers numb as I cleaned and patched him up. Jeb sat, ears flicking, watching.
The boss of the lumberjacks handed me a pack of MREs and some frikadellen for the dogs. He also gave me five litres of red diesel in an old antifreeze container, pointing out a good spot where I could camp safely away from their machinery.
That night, I built my fire nestled in the V of a fallen tree, stuffing the space that was to be my bed between the branches with twigs and dead leaves still clinging to their stems. It was a good shelter, just big enough for Jeb and me. Charlie would sleep on my chest, wrapped in my heavy leather coat, and Jeb would stay tethered—just in case.
The fire burned steady, throwing flickering light against the damp night. I cooked the MRE and ate while Jeb and Charlie shared the last of their dog biscuits, softened with water from the Kelly kettle. Jeb kept his distance, quiet now, as if he knew he’d taken things too far. Charlie barely moved, exhaustion and pain leaving him limp against me.
The machines worked through the night, their rumble threading through my sleep, but I barely stirred. Jeb stayed where he was, and Charlie never left my side.
By morning, the fire had burned down to embers. I packed up, shifted Charlie onto my shoulders, and released Jeb. He stuck close, subdued now.
My navigation had been right. A left turn. One final road.
I'd dropped off what was left of the diesel and started the walk.
The border was ahead.
The Final Stretch
The road stretched ahead, a promise of asphalt and civilisation not far beyond. As I walked, I passed a health spa, its pristine buildings standing in stark contrast to the wilderness I had been navigating. The idea of fresh water—or even the unlikely offer of a coffee—crossed my mind, but the locked gates and silence told me I wasn’t welcome.
Pressing on, I turned down a track and was met by another pack of dogs. This time, they were different—farm dogs, not strays. They barked noisily from a distance, holding their ground near a barn, but they didn’t advance. They weren’t a threat, just a warning.
And then, at last, it was there—the Lithuanian border. Not fifty metres beyond it, the sweet sight of asphalt roads.
I walked along the tarmac, exhaustion setting in, but the knowledge that I was finally out of Latvia gave me a second wind. Only thirty kilometres to civilisation. And hopefully, somewhere to stay.
Barely five kilometres down the road, I spotted a small factory unit. It wasn’t much, but it was a place to rest, to take a breath and let the reality sink in—we had made it.
At the far end of the sheds, a lorry sat idling, the engine’s steady hum breaking the silence. I approached the driver, Charlie still draped over my shoulders, and asked in broken Russian, “Heading to town? Any chance of a lift?”
He shook his head. “Riga,” he replied. The last place I wanted to be.
Disappointed, I turned back toward Jeb and my gear. But then, the driver called me back, gesturing toward another man. A brief exchange in Lithuanian, a nod in my direction.
“This guy,” the driver said, “he’ll take you to town.”