The now-familiar beeps wake me up again.
My throat is raw and scratchy. My body weighs a thousand pounds, limbs heavy and uncooperative as I try to push myself up, but it's still better than the dream I just had.
Something's off. The air is too still, too warm. The fan's off.
I grope for the light beside the bed, clicking the switch. Nothing. Power's still out, as expected.
The gentle patter of rain against the metal roof fills the silence—still storming then. But underneath that steady rhythm, there's something missing. No shuffling of little feet. No whispered conversations between the kids. No soft breathing from Bun beside me.
Bun.
My heart slams against my ribs as I pat the bed around me. Empty. "Bun?" My voice cracks. The darkness offers no answer, just a hollow silence that screams wrong wrong wrong.
Then—faintly—laughter. Children's voices from outside the camper, muted by distance and rain.
They're outside? In this strange storm? Alone?
