The cabin is quiet in the way that never feels real.
Not the loud quiet from earlier, when everyone was pretending they hadn’t seen anything. This is the slower kind—the kind where breathing evens out, the bunks stop creaking, and the adults stop checking in on us.
Most people relax when it gets like this.
I never do.
Quiet means things are about to change.
Some of them cry themselves to sleep. Some sit on their beds rocking back and forth. Others fall into an uneasy slumber. Outside, the cicadas hum like a lullaby.
But I feel uneasy.
Like the night Mom took things into her own hands.
Kind of like how Jeff hung there.
A matter dealt with in-house… probably buried somewhere in these woods. The thought makes me queasy.
I fiddle with the chocolate in my hands—the first sweet thing I’ve had since we came to this place.
Renna won’t talk about what happened earlier in the woods. I just know she came running into Marcus and my arms like she was trying to keep herself from drowning. When that kid came strutting out of the pathway, expression blank, I wasn’t sure what to think.
But watching him a little longer… I think he’s just as scared as the rest of us.
I sit up and look over to his bunk, three beds down.
Before I can change my mind, I slip out from under my blankets, climb up to his bunk, and sit down at the edge of his bed.
He cocks his head and looks at me. If he’s surprised, he hides it well.
After a second, he looks back up at the ceiling, unbothered by my presence.
“You didn’t look today,” I whisper.
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His eyes don’t move from the ceiling.
“I was working,” he says.
His voice is calm. Not the forced kind. Just… calm.
I pick at a loose thread on the edge of my pajamas.
“That’s not what I meant.”
For a moment neither of us says anything. The cabin breathes around us.
“I tried not to,” I admit quietly. “But I still did.”
I remember the way the rope tightened. The sound it made against the branches of the pinetree when the wind picked up. The way everyone stopped breathing at the same time.
“I kept thinking if I didn’t look, it wouldn’t be real,” I say. “But it didn’t work.”
Lloyd finally turns his head a little, just enough to see me.
“There wasn’t anything to gain from it,” he says.
Maybe that’s true.
But it still feels strange.
Most people looked because they couldn’t stop themselves. Fear pulls your eyes where they don’t want to go.
Lloyd’s eyes go exactly where he tells them to.
“You’re good at that,” I say softly.
“At what?”
“Deciding what things mean.”
He doesn’t answer right away.
“I don’t decide,” he says eventually. “I observe.”
I smile a little at that, though he probably can’t see it in the dark.
“That sounds lonely.”
He blinks once. Slow.
I shift onto my back, staring up at the same ceiling he’s been studying.
“My mom used to say people show you who they are when they’re scared,” I say after a moment. “You just have to pay attention.”
The words slip out before I can decide if I meant to say them.
“I think you’re different when you’re scared,” I add.
That gets his attention more than anything else.
“How?” he asks.
I shrug, even though he might not notice.
“You get quieter.”
The silence stretches again.
Not uncomfortable. Just thoughtful.
“I don’t think that’s unusual,” he says.
“Maybe not,” I murmur.
But it still feels important.
“I’m glad you were there today,” I say softly. “Have a good night… whatever your name is.”
I climb down from his bed.
Behind me, he huffs softly, like he’s thinking something over.
“Lloyd,” he says after a moment. “My name is Lloyd.”
I smile in the darkness.
“Vaelan.”
There’s an awkward pause before I add, “Well… goodnight, Lloyd.”
I hurry back to my bed and tuck myself under the blankets.
To my surprise, sleep comes quickly. Dreamless and heavy.
I don’t even notice the next routine bed check.
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