John

At first, he didn't know why.

The forest was silent in the way it only becomes after midnight, when even insects thin out and the wind settles into high branches.

He lay there listening to his own breathing and the slow pulse of blood in his ears.

Then he realized the tent was glowing.

Orange lights seeped through the nylon walls, so bright he thought he hadn't been asleep for more than a few minutes.

Until he checked his watch.

Hours had passed since he laid down.

He unzipped the flap halfway and peered out.

The fire wasn't dying.

It was roaring.

The log he'd placed across the pit had long since turned to ash, yet the flames were higher than before.

The stones around the ring glowed faintly, as though heat had soaked into them.

The air above the pit shimmered in thick waves.

He stepped out barefoot down to the cold ground.

Sparks spiraled upward into the black sky, but didn't fall back down.

They seemed to hover briefly, suspended, before vanishing into nothing.

Then he noticed the figure.

It sat on the far side of the fire, just beyond the brightest light.

At first it looked like a trick of shadows and flames, but as his eyes adjusted, he saw the outline clearly.

Something was crouched low near the pit, hands extended toward the blaze as if warming them.