You wake up freezing. That’s the first thing you notice. The cold deep in your bones, caught beneath the damp edge of the blankets. The second thing is the ache of hunger in your stomach that had gone away. Your heart’s racing as you take in your surroundings, the cold sweat you woke up with making your clothes stick to your skin. 
The memories of last night hit you before you even have the chance to sit up. How you all feasted like it was a blessing, like Jackie’s death was a blessing.

You turn over slowly, like too much movement might make the memory real again. Might pull you straight back into the heat of the fire and the meat and the quiet chewing.
 You don’t even know if you threw up or dreamed that you did.

You gear a rustle near the door. You don’t have to look to know it’s Patrick. You whisper his name, your voice rough, like you’re on the verge of pleading with him to tell you it was all just a horrible nightmare. He doesn’t say anything at first. Just crosses the room and drops down beside you. 
You don’t know how he’s walking around like any of this is normal. Maybe it’s not normal. Maybe it’s shock. But one look around the cabin makes you think you’re going insane.
No one’s regretting anything. Or at least, they don’t look like they are.

Why is everyone acting like you didn’t eat your team’s captain last night?

Patrick says your name softly, pulling the blanket higher over your shoulder. His hands smell like smoke and blood.

Your voice cracks when you say his name again, staring up at him with a pained expression in a silent ask for him to tell you you were wrong.

He exhales through his nose. You know that sound, that’s him trying not to lose it. “We did,” he says, low. “You weren’t dreaming.”

And for a second, you don’t think you’re in control of your own body. You feel like you’re watching this from a screen. Like the crash, and everything after it, was just some terrible hallucination you forced yourself to live through.

You turn your face into the blanket.
It doesn’t help. The smell’s in the fibers. In your hair. Under your nails. You curl your hands into fists. “I don’t—” You don’t know how to finish it. I don’t want to be here? I don’t want to remember? I don’t want to ever be hungry again?

He leans in, arms around you. You feel him shake before you realize he’s shivering too. “I know,” he whispers. “I know.”

He stays like that for as long as you need him to. Wrapped in dirty blankets, in a cabin full of ghosts and guilt, holding each other like it’s enough. Even though you both know it’s not.