“Needs more wood,” John said, ignoring Paul completely. He slapped his knee and stood to face Fran. “Wanna help?”
Fran’s eyes widened. “Oh, yeah. Cool.”
John smiled at her and they made their way toward the trees, leaving Ashley sitting opposite Bug and Paul. The fire popped and crackled, licks of orange flashing against the velvety night. A pile of firewood was stacked next to it—more than enough to last for hours.
So they’d been ditched.
“I’m gonna get a truck,” Paul said, angled toward Bug. Puberty may have blessed John, but it’d done the opposite for Paul. He’d grown at least six inches in the last year, but his limbs were still gangly, eyes sunken so deep they looked bruised. He flashed a toothy smile at Bug and the firelight sank into the deep crevices of his face. “Well, I’m probably getting one.”
Bug’s eyes remained on the fire. “Awesome.”
“Yeah. My dad says if I can fix up this old Tacoma he got from the tow lot, I can have it. He’s teaching me how to fix the radiator.”
“Nice.”
Paul kept talking, oblivious to the way Bug avoided eye contact. This was usually when Ashley and Tristan would meet eyes and Tristan would shake his head. Ashley would have to bite her lip to stop from laughing. Later, when everyone else had gone home and it was just her and Tristan in the back of her truck under the stars, she would put on her best Paul voice and say, My dad taught me how to change oil the other day. A truck with a fresh oil change? That’s art. And Tristan would laugh until he wheezed. He would pull Ashley against his chest and they would be a tangle of laughs and kisses until her mom called and they had to race back to town before sunrise.
Ashley pressed fingers to her lips and traced the small smile there. She was sitting at the fire mourning the person she was supposed to be sitting with. She opened her text message window with Tristan—his last message was too bright. Too short.
T: I can wait.
She rubbed at her eyes and tried to rope herself back into the conversation.
Then she saw it.
At the edge of the trees, just beyond where John and Fran had disappeared, a figure sat on a severed juniper trunk. At first glance, it looked like it could be a shadow. But it didn’t feel like a shadow. Its limbs were too long, chest too still, face too empty. It pulled at her, just like the black lake water had pulled at her. It watched her, unmoving. In the dark, Ashley thought it grew, fusing into the dark between the trees.
Bug stiffened. “What’s wrong?”
“Do you see someone?” Ashley asked. “Sitting on the tree.”
“There’s no one there,” Paul stated, matter-of-fact.
Bug squinted. “I’m trying to see—”
The figure stood, but its movement wasn’t right. It was jagged, abrupt, pained. The figure didn’t approach them. It only watched. Ashley felt sweat bead at the nape of her neck. Her chest was cold and tight, heart thumping a slow, fearful march.
“How do you not see it?” she asked.
Bug clutched her hoodie closer to her chest. “I’m … what does it look like?”
“It’s right there.”
“Ash,” Bug said, quieter, “I don’t see anything.”
The figure turned away from the campfire and made its way into the trees. There was something familiar about it. It was the same figure she’d seen during the search a few days earlier, but even more familiar. She’d seen its back before—she knew the shape of it. Ashley stared into the empty shadows and it hit her. “Oh my god.”
“Ashley,” Bug hissed.