John

On the last night of the late season camping trip, with the air turning sharp in his lungs when he'd take a deep breath, he decided he wanted more heat before turning in.

The fire burned down to a low red cradle of coals, steady and controlled, the kind that'd fade to ash within the hour.

The others in his group had already crawled into their tents, leaving him alone in the clearing with the steady pulse of the embers.

He found one more log near the edge of the woodpile and set it across the coals.

It caught quickly, like it had been kiln-dried.

The flames rose in clean vertical ribbons, licking along the bark and breathing life back into the pit.

He sat for a while longer, satisfied with the warmth against his face, and then finally turned in.

The fire was still strong when he zipped the tent shut behind him.

Something in the deep part of the night woke him.

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.