They moved clumsily at first, stumbling over each other's feet as they tried to balance the tarp stretcher across uneven shoulders. The counselor's weight, limp and boneless, dragged them down with every step. The first few yards felt impossible — but turning back to the clearing was worse, so they pushed on.
Rafi took the front corner, bracing the rough branch handle against his collarbone. Each slip of the tarp scraped splinters into his palm, but he gripped harder, jaw tight against the ache. Behind him, the girl with the braid and two older boys did the same, their faces pale and lips pinched white as they breathed through clenched teeth.
No one talked. Not even when the counselor groaned, eyes fluttering open only to roll back again. Not when another branch cracked far to their right, sharp and clean in the heavy hush.
They just kept moving.
Down the slope they had climbed in stubborn hope only an hour before. Over the stream again — this time slower, the weight threatening to tip the stretcher sideways into the rushing water. Rafi barked at them to lift in unison, voice hoarse from fear disguised as command. The counselor's legs dipped once, sending ripples that caught the last scraps of daylight. But they made it to the far bank, soaked to the knees, teeth clacking as they regrouped under dripping pines.
Rafi scanned the path behind them. Nothing moved. But the underbrush looked disturbed in too many places, shadows shivering in ways that didn't match the wind. He forced himself to turn away before his brain invented shapes that would freeze him in place.
They kept on. Feet squelched in wet moss. Insects hummed, then fell silent as they passed, only to start again once they were gone — a ripple of hush that followed them step by step.
At the fence, the last of the daylight bled out. The rusty wire seemed thinner now, more breakable. More meaningless, too — whatever line it once marked no longer felt like protection. They eased the counselor through the gap as gently as they could manage. He didn't wake, didn't fight.
The younger kids who had stayed behind clustered near the revived campfire, eyes wide and huge in the dusk. When they saw the limp figure on the tarp, a few of them pressed fists to their mouths to keep from crying out.
Rafi ordered two boys to keep feeding the fire. The rest huddled in closer, some too tired to stand but too afraid to sleep.
They laid the counselor by the fire's edge, wrapping him in the dryest blankets left. His pulse fluttered like a moth under Rafi's fingertips — weak, but steady. They would have to find water, maybe try to clean the wound if they could boil enough over the meager flames.
A hand landed on his shoulder — the braid girl again. She didn't need to say anything. He knew what she meant. They all felt it now: the air still didn't feel safe. The forest line whispered too loud. Branches cracked where no wind moved them. Something that had watched from the clearing hadn't stayed behind.
Rafi forced himself to look away from the dark between the trees. He told himself there would be time to figure out what to do next. Food first. Heat. Bandages. Then maybe tomorrow he could decide if they needed to run again — or fight for this thin patch of light they'd carved from the woods.
Above them, stars flickered through the ragged canopy. Small. Unsteady. But brighter than the clearing's sick light had been.
Rafi sat down by the counselor's side. He didn't close his eyes. He wouldn't tonight.
Not while the trees whispered secrets just out of reach.