For it was the fetid, imperfect breath of his friend.
Of Ank.
Who communicated to him without actual words,
––––––––
Sheila awakened with a start, her heart hammering, her pulse racing, and rolled away from Sammy so that she faced the tent’s flap—which they’d left open to allow for the flow of free air into the shelter (although they’d zippered the bug screen against the mosquitos; one of the drawbacks of being surrounded by hot springs). Erik was fine; she could see the boys’ tents clearly from their own—but she could also see, by the light of the gas lanterns, that the air was thick with haze and smelled strongly of smoke, nor was it the kind of smoke one would associate with a structural blaze, but rather the dry, eye-watering fog which could only have resulted from a forest fire.
