She's here again. The wilderness.

Above, the humid air conducts the peaceful sways of the canopy-greens. Muddy dirt squelches beneath her steps before silence halts her.

Thick, uncanny quiet ceasing the forest's breath, she knows well, alongside the next seconds.

The crows screech overhead—they always did—when distant rumbles shake the horizon.

Her mind already fathoms the source before it plunges in view. The plane. Its flaming belly tears past treetops like a falling comet, igniting the embers to rain on the ground. The roar of fire. The screams.

Her teammate's littered bodies.

Except, a knot coils in her stomach when the ground's silhouettes she knew by rote renews to you. Or, it should resemble you. Scorched beyond recognition, limbs twisted in impossible degrees.

Then, something whispers. "Eat."

Eat. The word scrapes at her insides like claws. Eat? She doesn't even get to scream. No tears. No no. The forest floor tilts, drags her where your remains lay—raw, glistening, pulsing, beckoning her to feast.

And now, eat, eat, eat is all her hand knows, bearing a hunk of meat. Warm. Slimy. The iron grazing her mouth.

And then—

"Sorry."

You give her a look. "For kicking a ball to my head during practice?"

A barely-there smile, she returns. "Yeah," no. She's plenty sorry for tailing you all day. For failing to convince her dad to delay, or purchase a new private flight. Sorry, she abstained the verity you're dating a girl with demons in her head.

"Relax," there's your light grin, "I didn't get a concussion," and the mask of death from last eve's nightmare haunts her.

She swallows a lump. God, she needs her pills.

"Yeah, I just—" She grasps the solace in your sleeve tauter with each tread. "Can I walk you home?"

This, for her, is utter vagary.

To be affectionate, this clingy, it's outside the money her parents threw at her. Yet, she can't let you go. Not after that.

Nationals is only a week away, and with it, the flight. What if her visions are warnings?