Marcus’s POV
The path back to camp was slick with mud, and I kept glancing at Stacey, making sure she didn’t trip again. Her ankle had swollen, but she was stubborn as hell, refusing to let me help her more than she thought necessary.
“I’m fine, Marcus,” she snapped when I offered my arm for the third time.
“Sure you are,” I muttered, stepping around a particularly deep puddle.
The rain had stopped, but the clouds hung low and heavy, and the air was thick with the scent
of damp earth and pine. The kind of air that makes everything feel too close, too heavy.
Stacey limped a little, her pace slower than usual, but she didn’t complain. Not outright, anyway. She just pushed forward, her jaw tight, her shoulders stiff.
“Stace,” I said after a while, “if you need to stop—”
“I don’t,” she interrupted, her voice clipped.
I sighed, deciding not to push it. Stacey was like a cat—helpful if she wanted to be, but clawing at anyone who tried to handle her without permission.
As the camp came into view, the faint sound of voices and laughter reached us. Most of the campers had gathered around the main firepit, their faces glowing in the orange light.
“You ready for the next activity?” I asked, trying to lighten the mood.
She shot me a look. “If it involves more walking, I’m sitting out.”
“It’s storytelling,” I said. “No walking required. Just a lot of mushy crap about our feelings.”
She rolled her eyes but didn’t say anything.
of damp earth and pine. The kind of air that makes everything feel too close, too heavy.
Stacey limped a little, her pace slower than usual, but she didn’t complain. Not outright, anyway. She just pushed forward, her jaw tight, her shoulders stiff.
“Stace,” I said after a while, “if you need to stop—”
“I don’t,” she interrupted, her voice clipped.
I sighed, deciding not to push it. Stacey was like a cat—helpful if she wanted to be, but clawing at anyone who tried to handle her without permission.
As the camp came into view, the faint sound of voices and laughter reached us. Most of the campers had gathered around the main firepit, their faces glowing in the orange light.
“You ready for the next activity?” I asked, trying to lighten the mood.
She shot me a look. “If it involves more walking, I’m sitting out.”
“It’s storytelling,” I said. “No walking required. Just a lot of mushy crap about our feelings.”
She rolled her eyes but didn’t say anything.
of damp earth and pine. The kind of air that makes everything feel too close, too heavy.
Stacey limped a little, her pace slower than usual, but she didn’t complain. Not outright, anyway. She just pushed forward, her jaw tight, her shoulders stiff.
“Stace,” I said after a while, “if you need to stop—”
“I don’t,” she interrupted, her voice clipped.
I sighed, deciding not to push it. Stacey was like a cat—helpful if she wanted to be, but clawing at anyone who tried to handle her without permission.
As the camp came into view, the faint sound of voices and laughter reached us. Most of the campers had gathered around the main firepit, their faces glowing in the orange light.
“You ready for the next activity?” I asked, trying to lighten the mood.
She shot me a look. “If it involves more walking, I’m sitting out.”
“It’s storytelling,” I said. “No walking required. Just a lot of mushy crap about our feelings.”
She rolled her eyes but didn’t say anything.