The bowstring frayed between Jake's fingers.
It wasn't much — a thin, curling fiber near the knot — but he saw it. The tension had been off for a while. Shots weren't landing as clean. The string groaned when he drew it. Every time he pulled back, a little voice in his head whispered one more shot, then it'll snap.
He crouched by the fire that morning, the light thin and gray, and ran a fingertip over the bow's grip. The wood was dry, a splinter starting near the curve. He sighed.
It figured.
Out here, nothing lasted.
He leaned the bow against a rock and stretched his stiff hands. The cold bit at the raw spots on his knuckles. His legs ached from another night sleeping under the tarp. The fire was little more than a bed of dull embers.
No food left.
One snare had caught a vole the night before — barely enough meat to fill a tooth. He'd cooked it anyway. It was gone now.
He drank from his dented can, the water murky, tasting of earth. His stomach cramped after.
It always did.
He knew it wasn't safe, drinking straight from the stream. It had made him sick enough before. But options were thin.
As he packed his things — wrapping the tarp, stowing the knife, breaking down what was left of his camp — his eyes kept drifting to the bow.
It wouldn't last much longer.
And neither would his arrows.
He had three left. One with a splintered shaft, one with a crooked point. Only one was worth anything. He'd burned through them faster than he realized. Missed shots, bad hits, broken tips.
The memory came uninvited.
A flicker of an old game menu.
A crafting system.
Resource counts in the corner of the screen.
Durability: 15%.
He almost smiled.
It was stupid, but those survival games he played — the ones where you had to gather wood and feathers, shape arrowheads, stretch bowstrings — they made more sense now than anything his dad ever taught him. Not that his father would've shown him how to make a bow.
He'd have said buy one like a normal person.
But those games… they'd been detailed. Too realistic, people used to say. Crafting arrows, repairing weapons, setting traps. Managing durability bars. Hunting for clean water spots.
And here he was.
Living it.
He found a narrow stretch of stream about a mile south, where snow melt gathered in a shallow basin beneath a fallen pine. The water settled there, clear, no mud, no dead leaves floating in it. The ice was thin, easy to break.
Jake knelt and filled his can.
It tasted… better.
Not good, but clean. No grit.
He drank deep, his throat aching, and for once his stomach didn't twist.
He'd boil it later, just in case.
Another thing those old games drilled into him. Don't drink straight from rivers. Find still pools. Collect rainwater. Avoid runoff near bodies.
Who knew it'd end up being real advice.
Jake chuckled once under his breath.
It felt strange in the silence.
He scouted for good branches next. His bow wouldn't hold much longer, and without arrows, he might as well hand himself to the next walker.
He remembered in one game — the tutorial said look for straight saplings as long as your arm, no knots, no splits. Peel the bark, leave them to dry near the fire.
He found five that fit.
Two were garbage when cut, too brittle. But three held straight.
Back at the new camp — little more than a firepit and a tarp draped over a low branch — Jake crouched by the flames, knife in hand, and started shaving the sticks.
The motions felt cleaner now. Less awkward. His hands hurt, but the cuts were straight.
He shaped points. Split one end for a crude notch. No fletching — he hadn't found feathers in weeks — but it'd do. Close range was what mattered.
His stomach rumbled.
Jake ignored it.
When the new arrows were done, he lined them beside the fire, letting the heat dry the wood. Not too close. Too fast and it'd warp.
Another lesson from those old games.
He checked the bowstring again. Picked at the frayed bit.
If it snapped mid-draw, it'd take his eye or hand with it.
He unstrung it carefully. Twisted what fibers he could, tightened the knot, reinforced the loop with a strip of vine cord he'd scavenged near the ridge.
Not perfect.
But it'd hold.
The fire crackled.
Jake leaned back against a rock, watching the snow fall soft between the trees. His shoulders ached. His stomach growled.
But the water he drank from the basin stayed down.
His arrows looked clean.
The bow felt steadier.
And the night didn't feel as sharp.
He pulled his jacket tight around him and let his eyes close.
Funny what sticks in your head.
Games.
Pixelated survival tutorials.
Durability bars.
All the things he used to think were a waste of time.
Turns out, they were what he needed.
In the end, it wasn't camping trips with his dad, or school, or TV survival shows.
It was that dumb forest game with the janky bow mechanics and complicated crafting menus that saved his life.
Jake chuckled again, low and rough.
"Thanks," he murmured to no one.
The wind moved through the trees like it was answering.
And for once, the cold wasn't so mean.