The fire’s burned low, the cabin quiet except for wind slipping through the cracks. You’re just starting to drift off when you hear it—uneven breathing, a sharp inhale.

You glance over. Joel’s sitting up, hunched forward, elbows on his knees, hand dragging down his face. He looks like he’s been yanked out of something awful.

“Joel?” you whisper.

He flinches, doesn’t look at you. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t.”

Silence stretches. Then he speaks, voice low and raw. “She was wearin’ that damn shirt. The one with the cartoon dinosaur. Said it made her look tough.”

A bitter laugh. “I could hear her laughin’. Like it was real.”

He goes quiet again. And even in the dim firelight, you see it—how hard he’s trying to hold himself together.