Flowers twisted on slim vines along the forest floor and up the trees. Whole canopies of orchids had braided together over hollows in too-damp trunks. Earthworms slid slow bodies over one another like busy fingers in the soil. And everywhere was the smell of dirt. Real dirt, rich dirt, dirt meant for growth. Rose and Derrick relaxed and filled the space as much as their conditioning would allow them, still pausing at each sound but no longer jumping.

Derrick found small game. They didn’t have time or room for anything bigger than a rabbit. He even picked some herbs to go with the wild meat and was able to cook gourmet over a spit. The first two days passed this way—food and walking, sleep and walking, games bored children used to play on road trips switched up to fit their surroundings and more walking.

“I see an ant, a-n-t. Your letter is t.”

“Over there—a tree.” He spun around, pointing in all directions.

“No, jackass, that’s cheating. You have to be specific.”

“Okay, okay,” he answered, scouring the ground as they walked. He pointed to a small shrub. “Taxus, t-a-x-u-s. Your letter is s.”

“What the hell is taxus?”

“Did you do any learning during the last few years? Jeez, Morriseau. You’d better spend more time with the bush master here. It’s a kind of yew tree.”

She thought for a moment, the term familiar. “Isn’t yew called the tree of death?”

“Yeah, it is.”

“Aaannd aren’t they found only in the south?”

Derrick stopped. “Well, I mean, things are changing, right? Climate’s all messed up. They must grow up here now.” He shrugged, a smile playing at the corners of his lips.

Rose caught up to him and gave him a half-hearted shove. “Yeah, right. Sounds like ‘the bush master’ could do with a little more schooling.”

Derrick overexaggerated a tumble from her push and then recovered into a full pirouette. He seemed to be a fine mood today. Last night, they’d shared his little tent, and when she’d woken up in the early morning, she had her back to him, feet touching his, and was sleeping under his arm. She’d immediately thrown him off with an annoyed grumble but wondered if it had contributed to his sudden sunny outlook.

He pushed aside an overhang of moss ahead of her, and caught sight of something bright in the distance.

“Tent.” Derrick stopped altogether, his neck at its full extension, his body held on tiptoe.

“And what’s that, another death tree? Besides, it’s my turn, unless you concede that taxus was bullshit.”

He thrust his arm out behind him and lowered his hand at Rose without looking at her. “Shhhhh!”

She crouched, an automatic reaction to the universal symbol for “get down.” After a moment, she whispered, “What is it?”

“I told you,” he hissed over his shoulder. “A tent.”

He stood like that, not even moving his chest as he breathed, for two minutes before resuming his normal posture and taking a deep gulp of air. He whispered, “Okay, no movement. Let’s go slow.”