He awakened suddenly, having dreamed—or thought he dreamed—of footsteps and breaking branches. A scan of the camp revealed nothing amiss: a smoldering fire, the clutter of dinner, Luna curled up in her sleeping bag. And yet—
He heard it again, not in dream—the breaking of branches, the shuffling of steps—and sat up with a start. He listened intently: something was moving through the scrub beyond the camp. He reached for his rifle instinctively (thankful he had cleaned and loaded it before supper) and eased the blanket from his legs, then nudged Ank.
“Ank, hey, pssst.” There was no response.
He stood slowly, gripping the rifle in both hands, peering into the blackness. Ank’s words from the previous night had not gone far: The ones you spared, they’ll be back. You know how fast they heal.
