## Chapter 6: The Morning
Dawn didn't break; it seeped. Gray light filtered through the thin mesh of the three-season tent, the one with the sagging fly we'd pitched the year I turned nine. The world shrank to the diameter of this nylon shell. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of pine resin and damp wool. I lay on my side, cocooned in the twin bag, the zipper still unglued at the top. My knees brushed his shins. Inches from the fabric, Mom's soft snoring vibrated through the floor, a rhythmic reminder that she was less than a foot away, separated from our secret by a layer of mesh and memory.
The tent had been the original model, the one with the aluminum poles that creaked like old bones when the wind gusted. We'd bought it at a big-box store when I was nine, and in fifteen years, the nylon had thinned to the consistency of parchment. You could see the forest through it if you squinted. We'd learned to use that. The thinness meant we could feel the temperature drop, the moisture rise. It meant Mom's presence was a physical pressure. We'd pitched it in the same spot, under the same pine, and the ground felt identical. The memory of the tent held us. It was a container for our history. Every time we'd slept here, the world had narrowed to this circle. Last night, the circle had held just enough room for three, though two of us were awake and two were not.
His arm remained heavy across my waist, the muscle still knotted from holding me still. I could feel the slow drag of his breathing, deep and even, against the shell of my ear. I hadn't moved since we'd collapsed. The silence in the tent was absolute, save for the occasional creak of the poles in the morning breeze and the distant thrum of a loon on the lake. I kept my eyes closed, listening. Mom's breathing had shifted. A sigh. A shift in position. I froze. Had she stirred? The zipper of my bag whispered as I adjusted my weight, a tiny sound that felt like a shout in the confined space. I waited. Nothing but the soft snore resuming. Safe. For now.
The sleeping bag smelled of him. Musk and charcoal and the vanilla soap he used. It clung to the fibers, preserving the memory of last night's friction, the way the nylon had rubbed against the ground while he pressed me down, his weight pinning me to the pad. We'd been careful. Quiet. Just the rustle of fabric and the muffled sound of his name against my skin. No words. Just the act.
Dad shifted. His hand, still resting on my hip, slid lower, fingers splaying over the elastic of my underwear. He didn't speak. He never did in the dark. He just pulled me flush against him, a silent command that I was still his, even as the world woke up around us. I nodded against his collarbone, a microscopic movement. When he finally rolled, the movement was slow, deliberate, careful not to snag the sleeping bag on his boot. He stood, unfolding his frame, and unzipped the door flap with his thumb. The world rushed in.
Cold air. The smell of woodsmoke. The gray light intensified, revealing the clutter of the morning ritual. He moved to the opening, the fabric parting with a sharp *zzzip* that echoed inside the small space. I pulled the bag up to my chin, peering out.
He stood by the fire pit, back to the tent. He'd shed his flannel shirt, wearing only a faded gray tee and boxers printed with anchors. The morning mist clung to his shoulders, dampening the cotton. His forearms were corded with muscle as he kneaded the dry kindling, tossing a match onto the tinder. The scent of struck flint cut through the pine. He wasn't looking back. He was working. The ritual.
He paused, struck a match against the sole of his boot, and held it to the wood. The flame caught, curling orange and blue. Only then did he turn. His eyes met mine through the open flap. No smile. Just a heavy, appraising look that traveled down my body, lingering on the dip of my throat, the bare leg peeking from the bag. He mouthed a single word. *Soon.*
Mom emerged from the tent door opposite us, wrapping a quilt around her shoulders. She held a metal pot, steam curling from the spout. Her hair was a mess, tied back with a strip of cord. She didn't look at me. Her gaze went straight to the fire, then to Dad. "Coffee's ready," she said, her voice raspy with sleep. She poured a cup, the liquid hitting the ceramic with a hollow clink. "Big day. Hiking the ridge?"
Mom's coffee mug was the chipped enamel one with the red star. I'd chipped it myself on a hike in '08. She ran her thumb over the rim, a nervous tic she'd developed after Dad left for the navy and came back changed. She was close enough that if I reached out, I could touch her boot. She was close enough that I could smell the lavender of her shampoo, the faint metallic tang of her lipstick. She was inches from us. She could hear the rustle of the bag. She could hear the *zzzip*. She just didn't look. That was the game. The unspoken rule of the trip. Mom cooked. Dad worked. I watched. And somewhere in the dark, we waited for the signal.
She stepped into the clearing, the tent flap slapping shut behind her. The sound was sharp. I watched her hands, steady as she poured, and noted the way she checked the perimeter, her routine as precise as ever. She was focused on the coffee, on the day, completely oblivious to the pulse hammering in my throat.
I slipped from the bag, the ground cold and damp against my soles. I didn't pull on pants. The fabric of the tent floor stuck to my skin as I rose, the sleeping bag falling away with a heavy thud. I walked toward the fire, the morning air biting my cheeks. Dad watched me approach, his chest rising as he inhaled the smoke. He didn't speak. He just shifted his weight, creating a space between him and the flame, a silent invitation. Mom set her mug on a flat stone and turned to me, offering a tight, distracted smile.
"Morning, love. You look like you slept well."
*Love.* A simple word. A simple word that tasted like ash and honey in my mouth. I looked at Dad, then back at Mom. "I'm starving," I said, my voice clear. The lie slipped out easily. We both knew it wasn't hunger. The fire crackled, a branch snapping like a bone, and for a moment, we stood in a triangle of smoke and silence, bound by the tent, by the blood, by the quiet that kept us hidden.