Mason

We were making mistakes.

We found a cluster of trees close together and wedged our tents between them, trying to keep the wind off.

We didn't hang the food far away because we were too tired to go deep into the dark.

We tied it close, high enough to keep it from animals, and we crawled into our tents like we were hiding in thin shells.

That night, I heard the zipper on my tent move.

Not fully, just a small sound, like the metal slider being touched.

I snapped awake and grabbed the inside of the zipper with my hand, clamping it.

I held my breath and listened.

Nothing.

Then a faint scrape near the tent wall, like fingers on fabric.

The pressure was light, testing.

I didn't move.

I didn't speak.

I held the zipper and waited.

A moment later the pressure stopped.

Footsteps moved away, quiet and careful.

The next sound was Mason's voice, low and strained, coming from outside my tent.

"'Don't move,' he said.

I unzipped my tent slowly, keeping my headlamp off, and looked out.

Mason was standing, his headlamp in his hand but not turned on, and he was staring at the ground between our tents.