"This is it," I say, pointing through the windshield as we pull into the campsite. Lyre's fifth-wheel camper sits right where we left it, nestled against the backdrop of beautiful woods.
When we pulled in the first time, it looked beautiful and free.
Today, it looks… ominous.
Perspective is everything, I guess.
"Is something wrong?" Caine asks, his voice rumbling through the truck. The kids are all quiet, even Bun. They understand danger in ways no child should.
I shake my head, but the skin at the nape of my neck prickles. "It looks fine."
But it doesn't feel fine.
The camper sits undisturbed. No broken windows. No kicked-in door. Not a single sign of intrusion. And yet... something heavy hangs in the air. A pressure against my chest. A whisper just beyond hearing. My fingers twist into the fabric of my jeans.
"Let's get the kids inside," Caine says, steel-eyed as he scans the tree line. He's felt it too. Or he's just naturally suspicious.
