Eli
The crates are heavier than they look.
My palms burn raw as I drag one from the truck's rusted bed, muscles screaming as I stack it onto another.
The wood splinters bite deep, drawing blood that I taste when I suck my fingers clean. I hiss under my breath, shake it off, keep working.
The cold air slices my face like a blade but sweat pools at the base of my spine, soaking the threadbare shirt they threw at me this morning.
This part of the camp breathes menace.
Ancient trees clawing at the clearing's edges, patrol wolves moving like death between the shadows.
I can feel the border not far beyond, marked by hanging bones that gleam white in the weak sun and carved warnings that promise agony.
A reminder that running leads to teeth tearing through your spine.
"Careful with
