It was getting harder to tell what day it was.
Jake woke to a pale, gray sky and the sound of wind dragging through dead branches. The hollow smelled of wet earth and old ash. The fire had long since gone cold. His bones ached with a deep, marrow-deep chill.
He sat up slow, his head pounding.
His stomach was a knot of hunger and nausea.
There was nothing left to eat.
Not a berry, not a scrap of meat, not a dry patch of moss worth chewing. The last of his water sat stagnant in a dented can beside the dead coals. It tasted like mud and decay now, but he drank it anyway.
It felt thick going down.
His tongue was dry again five minutes later.
Jake pulled his jacket tight and stepped outside. The world was silent, save for the groaning of old trees. Snow still clung to shaded patches of ground, now dirtied by fallen leaves. The wind had a bite to it. Not winter's sharpness — worse. A damp, bone-deep cold that didn't leave when the sun rose.
He wondered what month it was.
Could've been January. Could've been last week.
It didn't matter anymore.
He followed the stream downhill, steps heavy. His legs trembled, not from cold but from the weariness that never went away. He stopped every twenty paces now, just to breathe.
His ribs stuck out sharp beneath his clothes. His hands were a web of scrapes and half-healed cuts. Every finger stiff, nails blackened with dirt.
Jake didn't know how long it had been since he spoke a word.
Or what it would sound like if he did.
He found a hollow log halfway to the stream and sat down, the cold wood pressing against his spine. He stared at the water for a long time. Ripples moved across the surface. His reflection wavered, a ghost in tattered clothes.
He almost didn't recognize himself anymore.
A flicker of memory came uninvited.
His mother's voice calling him in from the backyard as dusk settled, her words soft, touched by a warmth he hadn't felt in what felt like years.
His father's laugh. Rough and loud. The way his hand would land heavy on Jake's shoulder when a joke landed right.
Jake swallowed hard.
It wasn't helpful, remembering. It only made the air colder.
He dipped his hands into the stream, scooped up water, and drank.
It burned going down.
His stomach cramped, sharp and mean. He ignored it. It was the price of staying upright.
Somewhere, far off, a walker moaned. The sound was faint, half-swallowed by distance. Jake didn't bother moving. If it found him, it found him.
He was too tired to care.
But nothing came.
The wind moved the trees. Old pine needles rattled like bones.
Jake closed his eyes and leaned back against the log. His mind drifted in and out. Thoughts came loose and meaningless. He couldn't remember what day it was. Couldn't remember how many days since the storm. Or the last rabbit. Or the two people by the fire.
It blurred together into a long, gray stretch of hunger and cold.
When he opened his eyes again, the sun had moved.
He didn't know how long he'd been sitting there.
His stomach groaned, mouth dry. He forced himself up. Bones popped in his knees.
The forest felt wrong. It always did now.
He spotted a rabbit track near the stream — two small indentations in the mud.
It was fresh.
Hope was dangerous. He'd learned that. But hunger made fools of people.
He nocked an arrow and moved, every step careful, muscles tight. The bowstring groaned. His breathing came too fast.
He tracked the trail for ten minutes, maybe more. It led him past the old creekbed, through a patch of brambles, and down into a small ravine.
Nothing.
No rabbit. No fresh droppings. The tracks vanished into wet leaves.
He cursed under his breath, his voice rough, cracked from disuse.
Another flicker of memory.
His dad, crouched beside him on a summer trail, pointing out fresh deer sign. "You always follow your gut, Jake. The world doesn't care what you think. It only leaves signs."
Jake shook his head like he could chase the voice away.
Didn't matter. Not anymore.
He moved on, his legs dragging.
By late afternoon, he returned to the hollow with nothing. His hands stung from the cold. He built a small fire, coaxing wet twigs into reluctant flame. It took too long. He burned his fingertips once.
The flame caught anyway.
Jake sat in front of it, empty.
Not sad.
Not afraid.
Just hollow.
He rubbed his hands together over the meager heat.
His stomach growled again. A thin, reedy sound.
A day without food.
Another without catching anything.
He stared into the flames.
"Tomorrow," Jake rasped.
The word startled him. It sounded small. Used up.
He didn't know what he meant by it.
Tomorrow… maybe a rabbit.
Tomorrow… maybe a clean drink.
Tomorrow… maybe nothing.
He leaned back against the dirt wall and let the fire's glow blur.
He didn't sleep. He drifted in and out, head filled with snatches of voices he barely remembered. His mother's laugh. His father's rough jokes. The warmth of a campfire that was real, once, years ago.
Or maybe last month.
He didn't know anymore.
Didn't care.
The forest would give or it wouldn't.
Jake was done counting days.