Mason

We packed up our breakfast fast, not because we'd agreed it was dangerous, but because we'd both decided without saying it that we didn't like being in that clearing anymore.

We moved camp that day.

We told ourselves we were just exploring deeper, looking for a better spot.

But it was an exit decision dressed up as a choice.

We hiked for hours, following the creek until it split, then taking the branch that the map said would lead us to a higher meadow.

The map was printed.

The GPS on my phone was useless without service.

Our compass worked, but the needle didn't feel steady in my hand.

It wobbled in a way I couldn't explain, and every time I thought I'd lined it up, I would look again, and it would be off by a few degrees.

Caleb said it was probably the metal in my multitool or my phone, and I tried it away from everything, and it still didn't settle right.

We found a new clearing by late afternoon, smaller than the first, boxed in by firs with a view of a slope that dropped into dense timber.

It was defensible in the way people think about safety when they're trying not to say the word afraid.

We set up the tent.

We hung the food again.

We built another small fire.

We didn't talk about the deer until the sun started to go.

It showed up before full dark.

No warning, no crack of brush.

One moment the slope was empty, the next moment the deer was standing halfway down it facing us, perfectly framed between two trees.

It was closer than it had been the first time, close enough that I could see the texture of its nose, the wet shine, the way its lips sat too tight over its teeth.