Chapter 218: Line of Sight
The jungle closed tighter the deeper I walked. Not in some poetic, metaphorical way—it literally narrowed. Vines looped between tree trunks like snare wires. The canopy above shifted from gaps of moonlight to solid blackout curtains, each step muffling the world more than the last.
I gripped the strap across my chest. The satchel Evelyn had packed was light, but it pressed against my ribs like it had weight enough to split them. The pain was constant now. Background radiation. Not debilitating, but enough to remind me of everything I didn’t have—strength, speed, skills, a flashlight, functioning lungs, take your pick.
The ribbon Sienna had tied to my arm fluttered faintly as I moved.
Stay tethered, it whispered. Come back.
But my mind was ahead of me. Two hours ahead. Four. A voice saying "We’ll be back by then," and a trail gone quiet.
I didn’t know how long I’d been walking. Time in the jungle is abstract. Especially at night. But I knew I was heading in the right direction. Not just because of the subtle markers—twigs laid at angles, shallow divots in the moss—but because I wanted to believe I was.
The first sign was a snag of cloth caught on a branch. It was navy blue, frayed at the edge—Camille’s satchel strap. I remembered her adjusting it half a dozen times before they left.
The second sign was a faint heel mark pressed into a patch of damp earth. Small. Flat. Alexis.
The third sign was a partially crushed fruit—yellow, overripe, stomped carelessly into the ground. And nearby, a smear of something that looked like it could’ve been blood.
Or pulp.
Probably pulp.