James Rodriguez

No figures walked the beach.

Nothing touched the tents.

But as I waited for sunrise, I removed the worn photograph from my wallet.

Thara, at her birthday party, cake frosting smeared across her cheek, eyes bright with lead.

I'd carried it through three countries and countless missions.

The island remained silent as first light touched the volcanic peak above us.

Whatever waited in the jungle had said what it needed to say for now.

The horizon turned from black to grey as I finished the final perimeter check.

Sunrise painted the volcanic peak in burnt orange while long shadows still covered our beach camp.

I'd logged 17 separate anomalies during the night.

Whispers.

Visual distortions.

Unexplained movement at the jungle's edge.

Three team members had independently reported encounters.

I boiled water on the portable stove, measuring precisely four tablespoons of coffee into the French press.

The familiar ritual helped order my thoughts behind me.

Tent zippers rasped open one by one as the team emerged.

Emily approached first, field notebook tucked under her arm.

Dark circles rimmed her eyes.

She'd been awake most of the night documenting.