That was the sound she heard now, her heart like heavy hooves running, when the thought occurred to her that French’s body could be in one of those tents. Panic insisted that she consider the possibility. Maybe the Recruiters hadn’t grabbed him. Maybe it was traitors. Maybe he had put up a struggle. Maybe he’d bled out and they’d left him behind. She looked over at the yellow tent, zipped up tight so that no smell would leak through, so that no animal would be drawn in. What if what she had been searching for was in there?

Once the image was clear, she couldn’t wait. She stood. Derrick’s eyes got big. He motioned her down again, but this time she ignored him. She stepped between the trees, out in the open, and walked into the camp.

“Rose!” he hissed from his position. “Hey, Morriseau. What the hell are you doing?”

She kept walking. If she could hear him, she gave no sign.

“Jesus, woman, are you trying to get us killed?” He was louder now, having given up on stealth. “Arrggghhhh. Fine.” He stood and rushed to catch up. She was already standing in front of the yellow tent.

“Seriously, what gives?” he shouted now. If this was an ambush, they’d already surrendered the element of surprise.

“Shut up.” She couldn’t explain. Not now. There was only the pulse in her head and the feeling of mud in her limbs. She had to make them work, had to grab the zipper and pull. She had to know. And there was a part of her that was sure what she would find. Something bad was coming. There was danger nearby, or maybe its ghost; maybe it had already passed through. But something bad was close. She knew it. And her instincts had never been wrong before.

“What is it?” Derrick was annoyed more than alarmed. His eyes moved around the space. This whole thing could be a trap, an elaborate stage set to lure in passersby. He kept the rifle cocked and moved it around with his gaze.

Rose grabbed the zipper of the yellow tent and, taking a deep breath, yanked it down. It caught and hitched a bit, but she managed to open it all the way. The wind caught the flaps, and then she could see the entire interior at once. A sleeping bag rumpled in the corner, a lantern tipped on its side, and a stack of tin mugs. Nothing more. No body, no blood, no French. She released her breath, and her shoulders dropped from her ears.

SNAP!

It sounded like an ax hitting a young trunk, one wet and sinewy enough to resist. Then a scream filled the clearing, so solid and sharp it was like river ice cracking. It made her duck and lift one foot off the ground at the same time. She recovered quick and spun.

In between the other tents was Derrick, his head thrown back, mouth open, eyes a color she had never seen—so wide, so dark. Both hands clutched his right thigh, his body rigid as if he’d been electrocuted. And there, ripped into his calf, were the metal teeth of an activated bear trap.