The sun hung at its zenith, a white-hot eye staring down from a bleached sky. Shadows had retreated into the soles of their feet, and the concrete slab radiated heat like the floor of a kiln. Adam sat hunched, the leather laces biting into his wrists, his voice a dry rasp as he attempted to negotiate his way back into the group's grace.
"I'm stable now," he murmured, eyes darting between Saleem and Nour. "It was the thirst… a temporary lapse. Come on, my hands are numb. Untie me."
No one offered a reprieve. He turned his gaze toward Fadi, who was nursing the empty plastic bottle as if it still held a secret. "You know I was right, Fadi. You're the thief here. That was my bottle. I'm the one who scavenged it."
Fadi didn't look up, his voice flat, drained of everything but a cold, residual bitterness. "You threw it away, Adam. In this place, abandonment is a transfer of deed. Besides, it was a mockery of a drink. It wouldn't have sustained one of us, let alone two. Your 'right' died the moment you let go of the plastic."
Elias tuned out the bickering. He remained fixed on a singular point at the forest's edge, his posture rigid. For hours, he had focused on that patch of undergrowth, a hunter tracking a ghost. He was acutely aware that exhaustion was a master of puppetry, capable of animating shadows and crafting voices out of the wind, yet the prickle at the base of his neck refused to subside.
When the rotation called for his next foray, Elias moved with a terrifyingly singular intent. He stepped off the concrete, his boots crunching through the desiccated grass. He entered the treeline, the air instantly becoming heavy with the scent of damp earth and rot. Suddenly, the rhythmic sound of footsteps—distinct from his own—brushed against the silence.
He froze. His heart hammered against a ribcage that felt too tight. He glanced back toward the circle, counting the silhouettes. Were they all there? Was someone missing? The heat shimmer made it impossible to be sure.
"Father!"
The voice sliced through the humid air from behind a cluster of ancient oaks. It wasn't a whisper or a trick of the breeze. It was clear, melodic, and terrifyingly familiar—the voice of a young girl.
Elias spun around with such violent suddenness that his equilibrium failed him. His knees buckled, and he crashed into the dirt, the impact jarring his spine. He lay there, paralyzed by a cold, visceral dread that had nothing to do with the sun. He waited, lungs burning, for the sound to repeat. For the forest to confirm his madness or his miracle.
Silence returned, heavier than before.
He scrambled to his feet, his face the color of wood ash. He didn't investigate further; he fled. He forced his leaden legs into a shambling run back toward the safety of the perimeter. Every stride was a struggle against an anatomy that wanted to collapse, his coordination shattered by a psychological blow he couldn't name. He reached the gray line and collapsed inside it, his eyes wide, searching for a ghost that shouldn't be there.