Mason

Some people don't talk.

But the image of them standing behind the trunk and watching us wouldn't leave my head.

It wasn't the act itself that got me.

It was the stillness.

The way they didn't wave back, didn't call out, didn't step fully into view.

The way they chose concealment automatically, like it was habit.

That night, the whistle came again.

This time it was closer.

Two notes, a pause, two notes again, the same simple pattern.

Mason and I lay in our tents with our headlamps off, listening.

I could hear Mason's breathing through the thin fabric.

I could hear my own heartbeat.

The whistle came again, a little farther to the left.

Then again, farther behind us, like someone circling.

At some point, a twig snapped close enough that it sounded like it was right beside my tent.

I clenched my teeth so hard my jaw hurt.

I wanted to shout.

I wanted to throw open the zipper and blind whoever was out there with light.

I wanted to do something that would make me feel like I had control.

I did none of it.