The morning light filtered through the pine tree's branches, casting long, slanted shadows on the forest floor. The air was cool, the silence thick with the promise of a new day. I woke up slowly, groggy from another restless night, the kind where sleep slips in and out like a shifting shadow. I stretched, my back aching from the hard ground, but the familiar scent of pine needles and earth grounded me. I got up, brushing the leaves from my clothes, and moved toward the small fire I had built the night before, still crackling with embers. The rabbit I had caught earlier in the week lay near the fire, and I decided it was time to make a proper breakfast—something to fill me up before I headed out to check my traps. I skewered the rabbit meat over the flames, watching it brown slowly, and while it cooked, I took a small piece of charcoal from the fire and began rubbing it onto my teeth. It wasn't the most pleasant taste, but it worked. The charcoal, dark and gritty, had become my makeshift toothbrush since I had no other means of cleaning my teeth. It felt like a small victory every time I managed to do something "normal" in the chaos of survival. I ate the rabbit meat slowly, savoring each bite, the smoky flavor filling my mouth. After breakfast, I packed up my small campsite and made my way to the creek, filling my flask before heading out to check my traps. The forest was waking up around me, birds calling from the trees and small animals rustling in the underbrush. It was peaceful—peaceful enough to make me feel almost normal again, like this wasn't survival but just another day. By the time the afternoon came, I had checked most of my traps, sharpened my spear, and adjusted a few snare lines. The sun hung high in the sky, and the air smelled fresh, like pine and earth. The day felt light, almost like I could forget that I was living on the edge, constantly fighting to stay alive. The wind had picked up slightly, a cool breeze that pushed through the trees and stirred the leaves around my feet. I stood near the base of the tree, the one I had been marking my days on, tracing the lines of my survival in the bark. I was lost in thought when the rustling in the bushes came. I froze. My hand instinctively dropped to the knife at my waist, my body instantly alert. It wasn't the wind; it was too rhythmic, too purposeful. Then I heard the low growl. I whipped my head toward the sound, my heart racing. There, emerging from the shadows of the underbrush, its fur matted and dirty, stood a coyote. Its eyes gleamed with hunger, focused solely on me. It was a small creature, but in the wild, every predator was dangerous. I backed up slowly, trying not to make a sound. I had learned long ago from my dad that the wrong movement, the wrong step, could cost you everything. And to never, ever run. I kept my spear raised, the tip facing outward, hoping the coyote would see me as a threat and move on. But it didn't. With a feral snarl, the coyote lunged, faster than I could react. It came at me in a blur, teeth bared, claws raking toward my legs. I sidestepped quickly, but the creature's teeth still scraped along my thigh, a searing pain that made me grit my teeth. I roared in pain, stepping back to put more distance between us, my fingers tight around the spear's shaft. The coyote wasn't done. It was relentless, a wild ball of fury and hunger, its yellow eyes filled with desperation. It came again, faster this time, and I swung the spear with everything I had. The point of the spear caught the coyote's shoulder, driving it backward, but the animal didn't stop. It twisted in mid-air, its body slamming into me with an awful weight. The force knocked me off balance, and I stumbled backward, my feet slipping in the dirt. I barely caught myself. The coyote snarled, its fangs snapping inches from my face. The adrenaline coursed through my veins, and I acted without thinking. I drove the spear into the ground, using it as leverage to push the coyote off me. The beast howled, its claws digging into my arms, but I shoved it aside with a brutal kick, sending it stumbling. I scrambled to my feet, breathing hard, my body on fire from the pain in my leg and arms. I knew I couldn't let it get the better of me. The coyote circled, its growls growing more desperate. It was hurt, bleeding from the spear wound in its shoulder, but it wasn't backing down. It was starving, driven by instinct. The hunger in its eyes mirrored the hunger in me. It charged again. I thrust my spear forward, aiming for its heart, but the coyote ducked under it, faster than I could react. It lunged at my throat, its teeth sinking into the collar of my shirt, dragging me down to the ground. I screamed, thrashing, my legs kicking out as I tried to free myself. The coyote's weight was crushing me, and for a moment, all I could think of was how close it was to ending my fight for survival. Then, in one desperate motion, I grabbed the knife from my waist and drove it into the coyote's side. It yelped in pain, its body jerking with the force of the stab. It pulled back, howling, blood pouring from the wound. I didn't wait for it to recover. I swung my knife again, this time plunging it deep into the coyote's throat, silencing its cries. The creature went limp in my arms, its body collapsing onto me, its blood staining my skin. I lay there, gasping for breath, covered in sweat, blood, and dirt. The forest was eerily quiet now, the battle over, but the aftermath was a sharp ringing in my ears. The weight of what I had just done settled heavily on me, but there was no time to mourn. I had survived. I had fought back and won. But I felt a chill, a deep unease. The wild was unforgiving, and I had just been reminded of that. I rolled the coyote off me, my body aching from the impact of the fight. The pain in my side flared up again, but I pushed it down. There was no time to dwell. I had to move. I forced myself to my feet, shakily at first, and grabbed the coyote by its hind legs, dragging it toward the nearest tree. The sun was starting to set, the golden light slipping away, leaving the forest in shadow. I knew I had to patch myself up before nightfall. The wound would need to be cleaned, and I had no time to waste. I used the sharpest rock I could find to slice the fabric of my shirt and tear it into strips. My fingers were slick with blood as I wrapped the makeshift bandage around my side, tying it tightly. It wasn't perfect, but it would hold for now. I looked down at the coyote, its body still warm, and for the first time, I felt the weight of the wild. This wasn't a game. There were no easy days. Every step forward meant risking everything, even your life. But I was alive. I had survived. And the coyote, for all its viciousness, would feed me for days to come. The reality of it hit me then—the wild didn't care. It took, and it gave, and in the end, it was up to me to make it out. I would survive this, too, I thought. I would survive. I had no choice.
