My boots crunched underfoot as I followed Peter through the camp, the noise swallowed by distant laughter and the low murmur of voices drifting between tents. The sun was sinking fast now, light slanting through the trees in dull orange bands, catching on hanging beads and bits of metal that chimed softly as we passed.
Peter walked a few steps ahead of me, shoulders hunched, hands buried deep in his jacket pockets. He didn't look back once.
We stopped near the edge of the camp where the trees pressed in tighter, shadows pooling thick and dark between their roots. Peter reached out and pulled open the flap of a small tent.
Inside, a single sleeping bag lay unfurled on the dirt. It was old— faded green, the fabric worn thin in places. An orange stain ringed the edges, dried and uneven, like something had soaked in and never quite washed out.
I stared at it for a moment.
I've slept in worse places.
