The snow crunched under Jake's boots as he moved through the trees. The air carried a sharp, dry chill that cut through his coat, but he hardly noticed anymore. Cold wasn't a surprise these days — it was background noise. A thing that belonged here.
He'd left camp early, before the sun climbed above the ridge. The fire was out, his tarp lean-to folded and stashed in his pack. Staying in one place too long didn't feel right anymore. Too easy to get lazy. Too easy to think you were safe.
Jake knew better now.
The forest didn't care about tired feet or numb hands.
His stomach twisted in a low, familiar ache. The last strip of dried rabbit had vanished the night before. His snares hadn't caught anything yesterday. And the snow was too thin now to track properly.
He needed a different tactic.
His dad had once shown him a trap diagram in a survival book — a deadfall. A simple trigger holding a heavy rock over bait. He barely remembered the words, but the picture stuck.
Gravity doesn't miss.
He scouted for a while, eyes searching for a flat stone big enough to crush a rabbit. Found one half-buried by a rotten log. Heavy. Took both hands to drag it free.
He chose a narrow animal trail nearby, where fresh droppings dotted the snow. Rabbits, maybe. Small, sharp prints.
Jake worked with stiff fingers, snapping branches for supports. Whittling a trigger stick with his knife. He worked slow. Careful. Every piece mattered. If one thing slipped, it wouldn't kill anything.
The cold bit deep while he worked. His breath puffed pale in the air. The world around him was dead quiet, save for the dry rattle of branches overhead.
He liked it that way.
Noise meant trouble.
After an hour, it was done. Crude, crooked, but solid. A bait stick rested under the rock's edge, balanced on the trigger. Jake wedged a shriveled mushroom onto the bait. Not much — but enough scent might draw something desperate.
He stepped back, studying his work.
It wasn't perfect.
But it was his.
And if it worked, it'd save an arrow. Save strength.
Jake moved on, setting his snares and checking old ones. The trapline stretched further now. Three here. Two more down by the stream. Another near the ridge. He'd learned to spread them out. Not trust one spot.
The woods taught you that.
When you counted on one thing, it failed you.
The sun dragged low as afternoon set in. Hunger gnawed at him, sharp and mean. The water he'd collected from a clean runoff pool near the ridge was better than the stream. No grit. No dead leaves floating in it.
A good find.
He'd boil it tonight. No more taking chances.
As dusk crept in, Jake circled back to the deadfall.
He crouched low behind a stump and waited.
The light thinned, turning the snow blue-gray. The cold settled in again.
An hour passed.
Two.
Then movement.
A twitch of fur near the trap.
A rabbit, skinny, ribs visible even at a distance. Nosing along the trail, drawn by the bait.
Jake tensed, fingers gripping the bow.
The rabbit edged forward.
One step.
Two.
It sniffed the mushroom, nudged the trigger.
A sharp click.
The rock dropped.
A dull, wet crunch.
The rabbit twitched once beneath the stone and went still.
Jake let out a shaky breath.
Not fear.
Not pity.
Relief.
He stood, moving to the trap. The rabbit's head was crushed flat. Quick. No struggle. No wasted arrow. No sound.
Gravity doesn't miss.
Jake pried the rock up, pulled the limp body free. Thin, but better than nothing.
He reset the trap, adding another scrap of old mushroom. Maybe he'd get lucky twice.
The walk back to his new camp was slower. The kill sapped the edge from his hunger, even if his stomach still ached.
The fire caught on the first spark.
Dry pine needles and thin kindling. He added twigs until the flames held steady, then skinned the rabbit. His hands worked faster now. Cleaner cuts. Less waste.
The meat sizzled over the flames on a sharpened stick.
Jake crouched low, warming his fingers.
The woods beyond his fireline stayed quiet.
No distant groans.
No footfalls.
Good.
When the rabbit finished cooking, he let it cool enough to eat. The flesh was stringy, the fat almost gone, but it was hot. Heavy in his stomach.
Jake chewed slow, savoring every bite.
He didn't think about his parents tonight.
Didn't hear their voices in the crackle of the fire.
It wasn't peace.
But it was quiet.
When the meat was gone, he banked the fire, curling under his tarp.
Tomorrow, he'd move further south.
The water near the ridge stayed clean.
And maybe there'd be deer tracks.
For now, the cold didn't bite quite as deep.
And hunger wasn't quite as sharp.
Jake let sleep drag him down in the glow of a good fire, with a full belly, a working trap nearby, and the woods breathing around him.
It wasn't much.
But it was enough.