The rain bent in sideways, even under what was left of the weather station's roof.
Cale and Nik had lashed a tarp over the east corner, anchoring it with stone and the weight of their collective disappointment, but water still found its cunning routes: dripping from beam to knuckle, sinking into the fibers of their sleeves, gathering at the base of Apollo's spine until his skin prickled with the cold.
The fire's smoke tangled with the steam lifting from their bodies, seasoning the air with the flavor of desperation and scorched lichen.
Yiv complained about the draw every fifteen seconds, as if the correct arrangement of sticks and spit would shift the odds back into his favor.
"You're choking it," he accused, stabbing a finger through the fog at Cale, who seemed to rearrange the fuel out of nothing more than muscle memory.
