Narrator

Luke pulled out his water bottle and poured a little over one print, like he was rinsing it to see detail.

The toes were blunt, wide at the front, the heel deep.

Bigfoot, Luke said, half-joking but with something hungry behind it.

I rolled my eyes because that's what you do when your friend says Bigfoot, even if you secretly can't think of anything else that makes sense.

Tessa stood up, looking up through the trees, not at the print.

Keep moving, she said.

Don't get stuck on it.

Luke wanted to linger, but he respected her enough to move on.

That afternoon, we reached the first planned camp, a flat area near water, not an official site, just a clearing where other hikers had obviously stopped before.

There was an old fire ring, cold ash, a couple sawed logs.

Tessa frowned at the fire ring like it offended her, then shrugged.

We set up the tent.

Hung the bear canister away from camp anyway, even though people will tell you that's redundant.

Filtered water.

Cooked dinner as the light thinned.

The woods settled into that evening hush where the birds shut up and you start hearing the smaller sounds.

Water over stone.

A squirrel scolding.

The distant crack of a branch.

Luke was in a good mood.