Mason

Caleb froze with the stick raised.

I remember the exact way his shoulders locked, like his body had decided to become heavy so it couldn't run without permission.

I grabbed his arm hard enough to hurt him and pulled him backward toward the tent, because the only instinct I had was to put fabric between us and whatever that was.

The deer closed its mouth, lifted its head, and took another step down the slope, slow and controlled, like it was showing us that it could take its time.

We didn't sleep at all that second night.

We sat with our backs against the inside of the tent, knives in our hands like that meant something, listening to the forest go quiet in sections.

i learned that night that silence can move it would be normal for a minute small sounds wind and needles creak in the distance and then it would go dead on one side of us as if someone had shut a door and then the dead zone would drift around the tent until it was right outside the fabric

When it was closest, we could hear breathing that didn't match either of us.

Slow inhale.

Slow exhale.

It wasn't heavy like a bear.

It wasn't quick like a smaller animal.

It was patient.

At one point, something pressed against the tent wall near my feet.

Not a pawing scratch.

A steady pressure, like a hand placed there and left.

The fabric bowed inward and held.

Caleb made a sound in his throat that he tried to swallow.

I didn't move because I was sure that if I moved, whatever was outside would learn something about me.

After a long minute, the pressure slid away, and then the footsteps started again, the same pacing as before, circling, circling, circling.