Mason

He just stared at the clip and said, Someone touched my pack.

My mouth went dry.

We left camp fast.

We told ourselves it could have been a coincidence.

A branch snagged the clip.

A manufacturing flaw.

Anything.

But neither of us believed it.

We didn't say the word person yet, not out loud, but it was already sitting between us.

By midday the weather changed, the light flattened.

The clouds dropped lower, and the trees started to drip even when it wasn't raining.

The trail narrowed in places where slides had eaten the edge.

We moved carefully, more focused now, less relaxed.

And then we started seeing the footprints.

At first it was just one print in a patch of mud near a puddle.

A boot sole with a distinct pattern, not ours.

Then another print.

Then a set, not always clear, but enough to tell someone had come through recently.

The stride looked normal, not limping, not running, just walking, on the same trail, in the same direction.

Mason crouched once and held his hand over the print without touching it, measuring the size.