Mason

I wasn't going to.

He kept looking at the bones, and then he lifted his eyes and scanned the trees with that same stiff movement.

We walked until we found the next camp.

It was another designated site, smaller, tighter, with less flat ground.

The fire ring looked like it hadn't been used in a long time.

There were no fresh footprints, no recent trash.

Still, it felt wrong to stop there, but it was late, and we were where we planned to be.

We set up anyway.

That night I woke up because I thought I heard footsteps.

Not the small scatter of a raccoon.

Not the heavy, careless crack of a deer.

Footsteps that sounded like someone trying to place their feet quietly but not succeeding because the ground was wet and littered with sticks.

Slow.

Measured.

A pause.

Another step.

Another pause.

I lay there with my eyes open, listening, and my first thought was that maybe it was Mason moving around.

Then I realized the sound was outside my tent, not right next to it but close enough that I could tell it was circling the camp area.

A step, then stillness.