Court was glad Bree had the gun. Every noise spooked him now that Ronnie was gone. The wind through the trees and rustling leaves masked the sound of approaching feet sneaking up on them. The tent protected him and hid anything that might be creeping up from behind. He jumped when a twig snapped, when the small stream nearby gurgled, when a bird called on the wing. “What was that?”
“Calm down,” Bree told him. The gun was tucked into the waistband of her jeans, where the denim pouched away from her lower back. She sat just outside the tent, nursing a small fire over which she warmed another can of soup. Court worried the gun wasn’t accessible where it was, but even though he knew he could reach forward and grab it if he needed to, he also knew he didn’t have it in him to fire the damn thin
