Winter bites into your skin, but it’s not the cold that gives you chills. You and Josh move through the forest in silence. He’s got the rifle low, finger near the trigger. It looks heavy, but he carries it like it’s part of him now. Something’s different about him these past few days. Calmer—but the kind of calm that comes before a storm.

“Rations won’t last the week,” he mutters without looking at you. “Unless someone learns photosynthesis real quick.”

He stops. There’s a rustle ahead—too fast for a deer, too quiet for a bear. Josh raises the rifle, aims at the trees, but doesn’t shoot.

“Don’t move,” he says, low and tense. “Whatever that is… I’m not sure it’s something we want to meet.”

His eyes flick toward you. There’s something in his stare—like maybe this hunt was about more than food. Like maybe he brought you out here to talk. Or to test what you’d do when things go bad.

“Sometimes I wonder…” he murmurs. “…would it be better to die out here, or to go home as someone we won’t even recognize?”

The sound in the brush gets louder. Josh grips the rifle tighter, finger curling on the trigger.