They didn't sleep.
Not really.
Zara lay beside Leo's small, warm body, watching the embers flicker low. Shadows stretched across Winter's silhouette—still as stone, crouched at the edge of camp with his rifle, eyes fixed on the tree line where the figure had stood.
When the sun finally crested the trees, Winter rose, rifle already in hand. His boots made no sound on the ash-cracked dirt as he moved to the hollow's edge. The trees were quiet again. Too quiet.
Her body ached from last night's tension. That figure. The way it watched. She hadn't needed to ask if Winter saw it too. His silence had been answer enough.
Now he was gone. Rifle in hand.
Zara sat up, brushing soot from her shoulders. Richard grunted from the other end of the fire pit. Mike was out cold. Naomi stirred when her daughter whimpered in her sleep.
A branch snapped—clean and sharp. Not an animal.
Zara's heart jumped. Her hand went straight to the knife beneath her blanket.
Then came a voice.
