Crossing the fence felt like stepping off the edge of a map.
On one side lay the rules and routines of Camp Grit — shaky as they were. On this side, the trees closed tighter, vines coiled like ropes around sagging trunks, and the ground pulsed with layers of soft moss that swallowed sound. Rafi kept one hand on the wire behind him until it slipped out of reach, a last anchor lost to the fog.
They moved single file, each kid matching the pace of the one in front. Nobody spoke now; words seemed too loud for this place, too bright somehow. Instead, the forest spoke for them — the slow drip of water from leaves, the snap of twigs under sneakers, the far-off knock of a woodpecker hammering out a warning.
Rafi forced himself to focus on signs. Bent branches. Displaced moss. Scratches on bark. They found them, scattered like breadcrumbs that refused to form a straight path. A low branch snapped at an odd angle. A half-smudged heel print pressed into soft earth near the roots of a birch tree. All small things, but enough to keep their hope awake.
The girl with the braid tugged at his sleeve when they reached a shallow stream. Its water ran brown with runoff from the storm, fast enough to slosh over their shoes if they weren't careful. On the far bank, the underbrush grew wild and mean, bristling with thorns that seemed to guard something deeper in.
Rafi crouched by the water's edge, watching the surface swirl around stones. He could see where mud had been scraped down the bank. Somebody had slid or stumbled here. Crossed in a hurry.
He stepped in first. The shock of cold bit through his socks, turned his bones sharp. He didn't flinch. Each step sank him ankle-deep, but he forced his legs to work until he clambered up the other side, boots dripping.
One by one the others followed. Shivering, teeth clacking, but too stubborn to stop. They regrouped on the far bank, breaths puffing in thin clouds.
Ahead, the woods pressed closer than ever, until light dribbled down only in spots — dusty shafts that didn't reach the forest floor. Between gnarled trunks, something glimmered faintly. Not metal. Not glass. Something softer, shifting in the breeze.
Rafi signaled halt. He crept forward, careful not to rustle branches. As he neared the glimmer, shapes began to take form: scraps of cloth, plastic bags, old tarps tied between trees. Someone had tried to build a shelter here. A rough lean-to propped up by fallen limbs, half-collapsed from wind and rot.
Inside lay a scatter of things: a dented metal cup, a moldy blanket, a plastic flashlight long dead. No counselor. No body.
But signs, again — fresh footprints inside the shelter, faint knee prints where someone had crouched or slept. And beside it, a crumpled note, soggy but mostly legible, weighted down by a stone.
Rafi's throat dried up as he unfolded it, careful not to tear the mushy paper. The scribbled lines twisted and blurred from dampness, but one thing stood out clearly enough to freeze the air in his chest.
Don't follow. Not safe.
His hands trembled just enough that the paper fluttered. The others leaned closer to read, eyes wide and hollow in the gray light.
So the counselor had been here. And he hadn't wanted rescue. Or maybe he hadn't wanted them to see what was deeper still.
Rafi scanned the clearing. The ground bore more prints now that his eyes adjusted — a staggered trail that veered away from the shelter, winding uphill toward a darker wall of trees. He could feel something waiting up there, the way air feels before a thunderclap splits it open.
The group looked at him, waiting for a word he didn't have. He saw fear flicker behind their brave faces — they'd come this far but hadn't expected the woods to push back.
He weighed choices again. Turn back with this warning, regroup one more time. Or keep pushing until daylight gave out — until whatever truth the counselor ran from either swallowed them too, or spat them back into the clearing with answers no one wanted.
Rafi tucked the soggy note into his pocket. He turned uphill, pointing to where the tracks disappeared under an arch of old, twisted boughs.
He told them with his eyes: One more push. Then we go back. I swear.
They believed him — because they had no choice but to believe in something.
Together, they climbed higher, into the hush that waited where the sunlight died.