The fire spat, a jet of orange licking the hollowed center of the marshmallow. I turned the stick slowly, watching the sugar bubble and char until the edges crinkled and browned. The heat of the flames warmed my face, contrasting with the cool night air that nipped at my socks. Dad sat to my left, his boots planted in the dirt, a beer bottle wedged between his knees. The amber liquid caught the firelight, glowing like a second flame. Across the circle, Mom was already buried in her quilt, her breathing shallow and steady. She'd claimed the sleeping bag the moment we arrived, leaving Dad and me to the periphery. Now, she was gone, swallowed by the nylon walls of the tent that had held us for twenty years. The zipper clicked, a sharp sound that sealed her in, final and absolute.
"You still burn the outsides," Dad murmured. His voice carried over the pop of the wood. I didn't look up. "Only for you." The stick lowered. I offered the treat. He took a bite, his teeth sinking into the burnt shell, juice running down his wrist. He didn't wipe it away. He just watched me, his gaze steady, not the lazy stare of the dad at the campsite, but focused. The firelight caught the silver in his stubble, the deep lines around his mouth, the way his throat moved when he swallowed.
"It's getting late," I said.
He set his bottle down. He stood, the movement fluid, and reached for my hand. His palm was calloused, rough against my skin. He didn't lead me far, just back to the tent entrance. This was the same tent from when she was nine, a dome of olive canvas patched at the corners with silver duct tape where Dad had fixed it after the storm. The smell inside was a cocktail of damp wool, sunscreen, and the faint, sweet decay of pine needles crushed under boots. This was the sanctuary. The place where rules dissolved.
Inside, the space was cramped. Mom's sleeping bag took up the left side, a mounded shape that rose and fell with her breath. She was only two feet from Dad's side, her arm dangling over the edge, fingers twitching occasionally. The margin for error was thin. The tent poles creaked as the wind picked up, a low groan that synchronized with the rustle of the bag. Outside, a twig snapped, sharp and sudden. We both flinched. Nothing else.
"We can't go back out," he whispered, his lips brushing my ear. He lifted the flap of the main sleeping bag—the big mummy bag Mom used. Inside, Mom's form was a mound of flannel and down. Dad slid in, pulling me with him. The nylon whispered. The space was tight, a cocoon of heat and smell. Mom grunted, shifting, her hand patting the air before finding Dad's shoulder.
We couldn't lie flat. The bag was narrow. Dad sat up, his back against the tent walls, his legs spread wide. I sat on his thighs, straddling him, our knees pressed to the canvas floor. The sleeping bag zipped up to our chests, leaving only our faces exposed to the dim light of the headlamp Dad had clipped to his collar. Mom was a breath away, her head on a pillow, her chest rising and falling just inches from my hip. I could see the rise and fall of her collarbone, the way her mouth hung slightly open, a thin line of saliva glistening on her lip.
He grabbed my waist, his thumbs digging into the waistband of my shirt. He pulled me down, our bodies pressing flush. The friction of the synthetic fabric muffled the sound. He began to push up, a slow, grinding rhythm that matched the sway of my body. The sleeping bag compressed around us, turning every shift into a soft *shhh* of nylon. No gasps. I bit the inside of my cheek to keep the sound in. His stubble scraped my stomach as he tilted his head, his breath hot but silent. I could smell him—beer, woodsmoke, and that distinct musk that was just Dad.
Mom shifted. Her knee knocked against my shin. I stiffened. Her eyelids fluttered. A low rumble started in her throat. I froze, my hands braced on his shoulders, feeling the muscle tense beneath my palms. Her mouth opened. I waited for the snore. It came, a soft whistle that vibrated through the sleeping bag. She settled. Dad didn't stop, just adjusted his angle, driving deeper, his eyes locking onto mine. The darkness of the tent pressed in, but the headlamp cast a cone of light over our faces, illuminating the sweat at his temples.
He leaned forward, pressing his forehead to mine. "You're doing good, baby girl," he whispered, the words barely moving his lips. I nodded, my throat tight. The world was reduced to this: the rustle of the bag, the rhythm of Mom's breathing, and the solid weight of my father holding me in the dark, inches from the woman who thought we were just sleeping. The tent walls felt like they were closing in, pressing us together, keeping the world out.