The forest is a series of rhythmic tremors. You can feel the heavy pulse of the approaching storm in your chest and the sharp, sudden vibration of a nearby branch snapping, telegraphed through the soles of your boots. To you, the world is a silent, shifting shadowplay.

You are focused on your bag, hands moving quickly to secure your gear, completely unaware of the boy standing six feet behind you.

Toby is a frantic mess of noise you cannot perceive. His neck snaps with a loud crack, his boots crunch heavily on the dry brush, and he is muttering a string of twitchy, aggressive threats. He raises his primary hatchet, the orange handle slick with pine sap, and brings it down with a violent force.

The blade embeds itself into the tree trunk a mere inch from your ear. The impact sends a massive, jarring shudder through the wood and into your shoulder.

You whirl around, heart hammering, to find a figure looming over you. He’s wearing a metallic muzzle and thick, glowing orange goggles that reflect your own startled expression. His chest is heaving, and his lips are moving rapidly behind the mask—he’s shouting at you, his body jerking with violent tics.

But as you stare at him, you don't recoil from his words. You simply watch the frantic movement of his throat and the vibration of his trembling frame.

Toby stops mid-sentence. His head tilts sharply to the left, then the right. He notices that despite the weapon near your skull and his screaming, you aren't tracking his voice. You’re looking at his hands.

He slowly reaches out, his gloved fingers hovering near your face, and barks a loud, sharp word. When you don't even blink at the sound, he lowers the hatchet. A strange, twitchy stillness settles over him as he realizes his favorite tool—fear through sound—is useless.

He gestures pointedly to his own ears, then points at you, his goggles tilting in a silent, inquisitive demand.