Alana McBride lived in Grove, a small place with rainy pavements, bright shop windows, and hills that looked blue when the evening came in. She was eighteen, with ginger hair that sprang out from under her red Man Utd hat, and fingers that usually had paint on them somewhere. Alana worked in Grove Outfitters, a shop that sold walking boots, waterproof coats, and maps folded so neatly they seemed to know secrets.
She loved two things with her whole heart: painting mountains and climbing them. A third thing had arrived in a red spotted bow tie. His name was Pennywise, and he was a clown who performed at parties, juggled soft balls, and could make a balloon dog look offended. Alana was in love with him in a fizzy, bashful way that made her drop paintbrushes when he smiled.
The trouble was Cecilia, the manager. Cecilia had sharp glasses, sharper shoes, and a clipboard that clicked when she was cross. That morning, she looked at a splash of scarlet paint on a rack of walking socks and said, "Alana, this is your final warning. One more mistake and you will not work here."
Alana swallowed. Her chest felt tight, as if a small knot had been tied behind her ribs. "I can fix it," she said. "I’ll paint the Slemish display for Local Trails Week. It’ll bring people in."
Cecilia pointed at the blank shop window. "By closing time tomorrow. No mess. No excuses."
Ashlene, Alana’s best friend, leaned from behind the till and mouthed, breathe. Ashlene was good at that. She could make a cup of tea, a joke, or a plan appear when everything felt wobbly.
Alana touched the smooth wooden handle of her paintbrush and breathed in through her nose. She noticed the smell of poster paint, rubber boots, and rain on coats near the door. Slowly, the knot in her chest loosened. She could do this. She would climb Slemish after work, sketch the real mountain at sunset, and paint the best window Grove had ever seen.
⁂
Slemish rose from the fields like a sleeping giant with a grassy blanket pulled over its shoulders. Alana knew it was the hard middle of a very old volcano, left behind after softer rock wore away. She liked that idea. Something strong, hidden for ages, standing up to weather.
"Saint Patrick was said to have tended sheep near here," Ashlene said, reading from a sign. "So if we get lost, I’m blaming history."
"Nobody is getting lost," said Alana, though the sky had begun to thicken with grey. Pennywise carried her sketchbook in one gloved hand and a thermos in the other. His round red nose bobbed in the wind.
"A mountain, a painter, and a clown walk into a cloud," he said. "That has to be the start of a joke."
Alana laughed, then looked at the path. It was steeper than it had seemed from the road. The grass was wet. Tiny stones shifted under her boots. She told herself she loved climbing, but the higher they went, the more the world below spread out like a map she might fall into.
By the time she had sketched the shape of the summit, the mist slid down. It did not rush. It crept. First it hid the far fields, then the lower path, then even the sheep became soft white lumps that might have been rocks.
"Alana," Ashlene said quietly, "which way is down?"
Alana turned. The path had vanished.
Her hands prickled inside her gloves. The wind pushed at her back. Pennywise stopped joking. His painted smile looked strange in the fog, but his real eyes were kind and worried.
"We stay still," he said. "That’s what walkers do when they’re unsure."
Alana checked her phone. Three percent battery. One bar of signal flickered, then disappeared. She thought of Cecilia’s clipboard. She thought of the job she might lose. Then she thought of Ashlene’s pale face.
Tell the truth. Ask for help.
There was a little rise of rock nearby. Alana hated the look of it. It was not high, but her knees did not care about facts. They trembled anyway. She pressed her palm against the cold, rough stone and counted three slow breaths. She heard wind in the grass. She felt rain on her cheeks. She placed one boot, then the other, and climbed.
At the top, the phone found one thin bar. Alana called Gavin from the shop. Gavin supported Tottenham, wore walking socks in summer, and enjoyed winding Ashlene up far too much.
"Please don’t make a joke," Alana said when he answered. Her voice shook. "We’re stuck on Slemish. Mist everywhere. I’m sorry. I should have told Cecilia where I was going."
Gavin went quiet at once. "Stay put. Share your location if it’ll send. I’m calling the walking club ranger. Keep warm, keep talking, and don’t move downhill unless we tell you."
Alana’s phone died just after the location sent.
⁂
The waiting felt long, but they made it smaller. Ashlene shared mints. Pennywise poured warm blackcurrant from the thermos into the cup and passed it round. Alana wrapped both hands round it and watched the mist bead on her knuckles like tiny pearls.
Then a whistle sounded below. Once. Twice.
"That’s them," Pennywise said.
Lights moved in the whiteness. Gavin appeared with a bright torch, a map case, and a woolly Tottenham hat that made Ashlene groan even before she smiled. Beside him walked a ranger in a yellow jacket.
"Trust Spurs to find the top of a mountain before a trophy cabinet," Ashlene muttered.
Gavin opened his mouth, saw her tired face, and shut it. "Fair. I’ll save the teasing for dry land. You all right?"
Alana nodded, but her eyes stung. Gavin did not laugh at her. He handed her a spare hat and said, "Brave call, phoning before it got worse."
They came down slowly, following the ranger’s steps. The stones were slick, so everyone moved carefully. Once, Alana slipped, and Pennywise caught her sleeve while Ashlene grabbed her bag. Their small line wobbled, then steadied. At the bottom, the car park lights glowed warm and golden through the mist.
For a moment, Alana let herself feel safe. Her legs ached. Her hair was wild. Her sketchbook was damp. But Ashlene was beside her, Pennywise was smiling softly, and the mountain stood behind them, quiet again.
Grove Outfitters was still lit when they returned. Cecilia stood inside with her coat buttoned to the chin. The cleaned socks sat in a basket near the counter, pink instead of white.
"You left work early without permission," Cecilia said. "You put other people in danger. Alana McBride, you are sacked. Never return."
The words landed harder than rain. Alana wanted to shout that she had only been trying to save the display, but her mouth would not shape the excuse. She looked at the floor, then at Ashlene and Gavin, who stood close enough that she did not feel alone.
"I’m sorry," Alana said. It was small, but it was true.
Cecilia unlocked the staff cupboard to fetch Alana’s bag. The door swung wider than she meant it to. Inside, behind the spare hangers, stood an old painting of Slemish.
Alana stared. The painting showed the same mist, the same rock, and a tiny red-haired figure on the slope wearing a Man Utd hat.
Pennywise whispered, "Alana… when did you paint that?"
Alana did not answer, because the little figure in the painting had just lifted its hand and pointed towards the mountain.
