Into The Wild
The cold came in fast.
Dan cinched his hood. Breath fogged the air in front of him.
Somewhere in the distance, a coyote howled—long, low, close. The kind of sound that made you second-guess every decision that brought you to this point.
“We’re exposed here,” he muttered.
Tyler looked up from the map he was pretending to read. “We’ve been here thirty minutes.”
“Exactly. That’s how long it takes for the wild to test you.”
Justin crouched nearby, chewing jerky like it was his last meal. He was good under pressure. Quick hands. Steady eyes. Reliable in a crisis.
Dan nodded. These were the men you wanted beside you when the trail disappeared and the shadows moved wrong.
“We’ll set camp here,” he said. “Dig in. Stay low. If it howls again, no lights. No noise.”
Justin raised his head. “You sure that was a coyote?”
Dan stared into the trees. “That wasn’t just one.”
The wind stirred the leaves. A paper plate tumbled past like a broken compass. Dan stepped on it without breaking stride.
“Out here,” he said, “you lose your name. You become your instincts.”
⸻
They built the fire like it was a sacred ritual. Tyler gathered twigs. Justin used a flat rock to carve shavings off a half-rotten branch. Dan struck a match and whispered, “Live.”
The flame sputtered.
Then caught.
They sat in silence, watching it grow, the only warmth for miles. Dan tossed on a crumpled guidebook about digital photography—sacrifice for the gods.
Justin coughed. “Is that burning plastic?”
“Focus on your breath,” Dan said.
Dinner was grim.
They’d brought rations—some old bread, one apple, and a suspicious bag of trail mix Dan had labeled DO NOT EAT three summers ago.
“Eat slow,” Dan said. “You want your energy to last through the night.”
Tyler licked Nutella from a plastic spoon. Dan handed him a cracked hard-boiled egg.
“Protein. Fat. It matters.”
They ate in silence, chewing like survivors.
Somewhere in the distance, the coyote howled again.
Justin stiffened. “Closer this time.”
Dan nodded. “They travel in packs.”
Night fell like a curtain.
The tent was small. Cramped. Cold air slipped in from the seams. Dan wrapped his coat around his knees and studied the flickering shadows on the canvas.
“We move at first light,” he said. “This place isn’t safe.”
“Because of the raccoons?” Tyler asked.
Dan didn’t respond.
Outside, branches cracked. The fire hissed. And then—
Light.
Blinding. White. From above.
“Dan?”
The voice echoed like thunder.
The tent rustled. The flap opened. She stood there—his wife—in a sweater and house slippers, holding a tray.
“I brought the finger sandwiches. From my book club.”
Silence.
Tyler sat up fast. “Are those the cucumber ones?”
“Yeah,” she said. “Also, the neighbor says can you keep the volume down? His dog won’t stop howling.”
Dan didn’t move.
She stepped closer, set the tray down on a crate.
She gestured to the kids. “They’re covered in peanut butter.”
Justin held up a hand. “Technically Nutella.”
She turned to leave. “Sprinklers come on at midnight.”
The tent flap zipped closed behind her.
Dan exhaled slowly, took a sandwich from the tray, and bit into it like it was bark from the Giving Tree.
“Next time,” he said, “we go deeper.”
