We slog through brambles, the mist now stinging with ice. Every once in a while there will be a howl in the distance, a stark reminder of what's at stake. Losing control and shifting means failing the assignment.
Checkpoint three is at the edge of a small ravine, stream glittering at the bottom like a vein of mercury under the moon. The instructions say to collect water here to prove we can find and boil it if it ever comes to that.
Jax unslings the canteen, crouches at the bank. “Got a cup or something?”
I fish in the satchel, hands numb and clumsy. The canvas is stiff, the lid stuck. Jax holds out his hand, waiting. Even that simple gesture feels like a trap.
I shove the cup at him. It’s harder than it should be. Contact. Touch. I picture him yanking my sleeve, pinning me with those
