Matt

This wasn't here when we left, Miguel said.

No, Ryan agreed, and nobody passed us in the wash.

We would have seen them.

Could have come in over the rim, I suggested weakly, gesturing to the banks.

From up top.

Without leaving footprints?

Miguel asked.

Come on, man.

He was right.

The sand around the spiral was smooth, apart from our own prints at the edge.

Okay, Ryan said, exhaling hard.

We're moving camp.

Now.

Packing up a campsite you expected to stay in for days has a different energy when you're doing it, because something unseen is messing with you.

We didn't talk much.

We just moved.

Ryan collapsed the rooftop tent and stowed the awning with quick, efficient motions.

Miguel and I gathered gear, coiling ropes and tossing chairs into the truck bed.

I doused the fire pit with water even though we weren't planning to use it again, because some parts of my brain were still operating on autopilot, and Smokey Bear is apparently one of them.

As I turned away from the fire pit, my boot caught on something.