Mason

We built a small fire, not for warmth, but because it's what you do when you finally sit still.

We ate and talked and listened to the forest settle into evening.

There were birds until there weren't.

There was wind until it thinned out.

Around dusk I saw the deer for the first time at the edge of the trees, not in the open like they sometimes do, but tucked just inside the shadows where the trunks broke up its shape.

It was standing still, head up, ears forward.

I pointed it out to Caleb, expecting it to bolt the moment it noticed us noticing it.

It didn't.

It held eye contact in a way that made my stomach tighten.

Dear look through you.

This one looked at me.

Then it took one step forward and stopped again, like it was waiting for permission.

I told myself it was just not used to people, or too used to people.

We were miles from anywhere, and I didn't want to start inventing threats.

But the longer I watched, the more details started to snag in my head.

Its legs were too stiff at the joints when it shifted weight.

Its neck moved in small, precise angles, not the loose motion I expect from an animal that lives in brush and has to react fast.

Its coat looked wrong, not mangy exactly, but uneven in a way that didn't match the season.

When it blinked, it did it slowly, like it had to think about it.

Caleb made a joke about it being our first audience member and tossed a pebble into the clearing near it.