The transition from the open ridge to the dense forest changed the sound of their survival. On the heights, the wind had been a constant, howling weight. Now, as they descended into the thick timber, the world became muffled, damp, and claustrophobic.
Alistair watched a woman named evelyn. She was sitting on a damp log, her fingers shaking as she tried to pick a deep splinter out of her palm with her teeth. Her face was contorted, not with the dramatic flair of a martyr, but with the mundane, irritating sting of physical pain. Near her, two men—Thomas and Fredrick—argued in hushed, jagged tones over a torn piece of burlap. They weren't fighting over its value; they were fighting because their nerves were frayed to the point of snapping. Eventually, they both just let go. The cloth fluttered to the mud. They stared at it, then at each other, and simply sat down.
