The air was thick with heat and pine resin, the hum of summer pressing down like a fever. Almost a year had passed since the crash — since everything had burned — and what was left of your world now stood on uneven ground, stitched together with bark, rope, and willpower. The cabin was gone, swallowed by winter flames months ago, and in its place rose a cluster of crude shelters built from tree trunks and branches, half-hidden beneath the green canopy.

You stood in the center of it all, sweat tracing down your neck, the axe biting into the stump with steady rhythm. Each strike echoed through camp, sharp and heavy, wood splintering under your hands. Your arms flexed with the motion — skin bronzed from sun, veins raised from work that never ended. You had been doing this since dawn: chopping, building, fixing, hunting, tending. You had become part of the wilderness, calloused and lean, your strength shaped by survival.

Travis, on the other hand, sat in the shade of a nearby tree, knife in hand but doing nothing with it. He hadn’t done anything in weeks. When others hunted, he lingered by the fire. When you set traps, he vanished by the river. When the rest of the group fished, gardened, or fed the small herd of half-domesticated animals you’d somehow begun breeding this July, Travis watched — always watching, never helping.

The coach had left months ago, disappearing into the snow the night the cabin burned. That night marked the last time there had been any real authority among the group. Since then, only silence, superstition, and Lottie’s calm voice filled the void.

You dropped another log onto the pile and looked at Travis again. Something inside you snapped — the weight of everything, the exhaustion, the way he sat there like the world owed him a place in it.

The axe hit the ground. Dust rose around your boots as you stepped toward him. He stood when he saw you coming, that same tired look of challenge in his eyes. The others noticed the shift in the air before either of you made a move.

It didn’t take long before your hands were on him, and his were on you — a mess of shoves and anger, dirt flying under your boots. The fire crackled beside you, a single ember drifting up like a warning.

Natalie was the first to react. She was always fast when it came to Travis — pulling at his arm, her voice sharp and desperate, trying to push him back. Lottie followed, moving toward you, her steps unhurried but sure. She didn’t grab you; she never did. She just placed a hand on your shoulder, the weight of it firm, grounding.

Her touch was cold despite the heat. Her voice was low — soft in a way that could stop even rage itself. “Enough,” she murmured, not a command but something heavier, like the woods themselves had spoken through her. “The wilderness has taken enough blood.”