Jason

Sweat glued my shirt to my back.

My brain felt like it was trying to cook itself inside my skull.

We drank more water than we'd planned, which tickled the little lizard brain part of me that kept track of survival math in the background.

Every time we rounded a curve in the canyon, I told myself we were a little farther from that campsite, from that rock with the hair and the prints that changed mid-step.

But the feeling of being watched didn't fade.

If anything, it got more focused, like whatever was out there didn't have to search anymore.

Once, in the shimmery distance ahead, I could have sworn I saw a person walking along the rim of the canyon, silhouetted against the blazing sky.

Tall and thin, wearing something that flapped in the wind.

A coat or a robe.

They kept pace with us for a while.

When the canyon curved and then straightened again, they were gone.

Late afternoon, clouds started to build over the plateau.

Thick, dark, monsoon clouds.

The kind you don't want to see when you're in a narrow canyon.

Thunder grumbled far off like some enormous stomach.

Dylan kept glancing up, calculating the risk.

We gotta make the side trail before that hits, he said.

Flash flood in here would screw us.

My legs felt like rubber.

Aaron's face was red and tight.