Night had settled on the camp fast.
The air was sharp with cold and smoke, embers from the fires drifting like dying stars. Most people had retreated into tents, voices lowered, the camp pulled inward on itself the way it always did after violence. Like pretending quiet could undo noise.
I crouched near a dented metal pail by the fire pit.
The water inside was pale in the moonlight, skin-slick and trembling when I touched it. I dipped my hands in, sucked in a breath, and lifted the water to my face.
Cold bit hard.
I hissed as it hit the graze on my cheek, blood gone tacky, the skin around it swollen and angry. The pain was sharp enough to cut through everything else for half a second.
Then it was gone.
The smell lingered instead.
Gunpowder.
Metallic. Bitter. Like it had soaked into my lungs instead of my clothes.
