The Silent Conspirators

The fire crackled and spat, casting jagged shadows across the clearing. Kheta watched the flames dance, her knees drawn up to her chest, the heat doing nothing to thaw the cold knot lodged beneath her ribs. A branch popped, sending a spray of embers spiraling into the night, and she flinched as if the sound had been a voice.

Across the fire, Justin poked at the coals with a stick, his movements too deliberate, too slow. His jaw was tight, the muscle jumping now and then like a trapped nerve. He hadn't said much since they’d set up camp. None of them had.

Mike sat apart from the others, his back against a gnarled oak, arms crossed. He stared into the darkness beyond the firelight, his face unreadable. But Kheta knew that stillness. It was the kind he wore when he was trying to keep something buried.