Dawn crept in without warmth or promise — just a slow bleeding of black to bruised gray, mist curling low around the clearing like a filthy bandage. The fire had burned down to a nest of coals and blackened logs. A few kids dozed upright, chins on knees, twitching at each snap from the forest.
Rafi hadn't closed his eyes all night. He crouched by the counselor, feeling for a pulse that still beat slow and shallow under fevered skin. He'd fed the fire, barked orders for more wood, more watchful eyes, quieter breathing. He'd done everything except sleep — because sleep was the door it wanted him to open.
Now, in the sallow morning hush, the camp looked as ragged as he felt. Blankets crusted with mud, half-empty water jugs scattered by careless hands, the kids' faces hollow and older than they'd looked yesterday.
He stood, ignoring the ache in his legs. He needed to think.
The braid girl joined him, hugging her coat tight around her shoulders. Her eyes kept drifting to the tree line where the shadows had gathered before retreating at the touch of flame. Neither of them said it out loud, but they both knew the dark hadn't gone far. Dawn didn't scatter it; it just made it wait.
They gathered the older kids who were awake — a knot of thin shoulders and cracked lips, trying to look braver than their eyes betrayed.
Rafi laid out what little choice they had: stay here and hope the counselor woke enough to guide them, or pack what they could carry and risk the long path through the forest back to the old ranger's outpost miles down the road.
One boy, the one with the scabbed knees and sharp elbows, argued that running would just get them lost or picked off in the trees. Another said if they stayed, they'd starve, or the thing would crawl back under the fence once the fire died.
The braid girl wanted to send two kids as runners for help — but Rafi shook his head. Splitting up now meant feeding strays to the trees one by one.
No good choices. Only bad ones that might buy time.
The counselor stirred, pulling a thin groan through cracked lips. Rafi knelt fast, trying to coax a word out of him, but his eyes flickered without focus. He gripped Rafi's wrist weakly, nails dirty and broken. His lips shaped half a thought — no strength to push the sound out. When his hand fell away, Rafi felt cold crawl into his veins again.
He stood and faced the kids.
They would stay — for one more day. Build the fire bigger. Rig torches to hold through the dusk. Maybe the counselor would wake enough to tell them how to get out. Maybe the runners could still be sent if he didn't.
The braid girl didn't argue. Neither did the rest, though none looked relieved. They fanned out to scavenge for dry sticks and the last hidden scraps of food: crackers forgotten in pockets, a bit of stale bread in the bottom of a backpack.
Rafi stayed beside the counselor's side, listening to each shallow breath and telling himself it meant there was still a chance. He rubbed warmth back into the man's cold hand. He wished the counselor would open his eyes and say the secret that could crack this open — what roots it had sunk, how to burn it out.
But all he got was a harsh rattle and silence.
The mist clung low all morning, hugging their ankles, swallowing sound. Sometimes Rafi thought he saw a shape drift just beyond the fire pit's charred circle — a suggestion of shoulders, maybe antlers, maybe limbs too long to be human. He forced himself to look away each time. He didn't trust what he saw anymore.
When the braid girl came back, her arms full of sticks, she met his eyes and didn't flinch. They would hold out one more night, she promised with that look. One more chance for daylight to save them.
And if daylight didn't?
Then they would decide if it was better to run, or to turn and face what waited in the dark.