Sage
The afternoon air is brisk as I head toward the main fire pit, pulling my scarf tighter against the chill. The camp sprawls across a few rugged acres here in rural Montana. Most days, it feels like a strange miracle that so many people—around 250 of us now, all ages, all backgrounds—have made it this far.
The structure we’ve created here aims for something beyond survival. Branson, our leader, was the one who insisted on that from the beginning. He’s in his forties, with graying hair that he tries to hide under a battered cap, and he runs the camp with a blend of discipline and kindness. To him, the camp isn’t just a refuge; it’s a chance to rebuild a sense of normalcy and stability. Each person chips in, not only with chores but with strengths in mind—those who know medicine take shifts in the infirmary, others who know mechanics or engineering repair the makeshift solar grid, while some work with Branson and the scouts on building defenses or teaching survival skills.
It’s because of Branson’s vision that many of us are still here. Most people arrived in waves, fleeing the cities for the safer, rural areas less touched by the blasts. Some were drawn by rumors of a stable camp; others just happened upon us. In the months since I joined, it’s become a patchwork community, a place where we all contribute in whatever way we can.
As I approach the fire pit, I see Branson already there, bent over a map, his expression as serious as ever. He straightens when he sees me, nodding in greeting. Moments later, Dash joins us, his shoulders set in that quiet, unshakeable way he has, though I sense the weight of his thoughts as he settles beside us.
Branson gestures to the map, his finger tracing our camp’s borders. “With the Sovereign Accord nosing around, we need to think about how we’re going to handle them,” he says, his voice low. “I don’t trust that Reeves won’t pull something if he shows up again with backup.”
Dash settles down across from us, his eyes on the map, his face thoughtful. “If they send more than just Reeves next time, we’re going to need a way to keep an eye on each other without drawing attention. The scouts are picking up the basics of sign language well, and I think it could be the edge we need.”
Branson raises an eyebrow, nodding. “It’s a good point. I’ve been watching you work with them, and I can see how it could make a difference. Silent communication could keep us ahead if they try to catch us off guard.”
“I agree,” I say, leaning forward. “The signs give us a way to stay connected in real time, without tipping them off. It’s one of the few advantages we can rely on without needing supplies or weapons.”
Dash glances at me, a slight lift of his brow as our eyes meet. I sense that same silent understanding, a shared purpose, in the way he nods back.
Branson watches us both, his expression approving. “We’ll need every advantage we can get,” he says, his tone grave but resolute. “And if you two think this sign language plan will keep us ready, then I’m all for it. Let’s make sure everyone who needs it learns at least a few basics.”
Dash nods, voice steady. “We’ll start with simple signals for directions, movement, and emergencies. Only the essentials—things they can learn fast and use in a pinch. No point in slowing anyone down with anything too complicated.”
We talk through different scenarios, the fire crackling steadily as we work through the details. Dash and Branson discuss vantage points and rotations, ways to position people across camp to ensure we’re always within view of one another. There’s talk of splitting watches at night to keep us alert, of placing more guards along the tree line.
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By the time we’re done, the sky has dimmed, casting the camp in the soft, hazy glow of evening. I watch as Branson rolls up the map, his expression firm as he claps a hand on Dash’s shoulder. “You two are doing good work. We’ve come this far, and I don’t intend to lose what we’ve built here.”
Dash gives a short nod, his eyes meeting mine for a brief moment. I feel a surge of resolve settle in me as we rise from the fire. For the first time in days, I feel like we’re prepared—not only to defend our camp, but to protect the fragile life we’ve managed to create in this rough, wild place.
By the time we make it back to the lean-to, the sky is a deep, endless black, stars hidden by a veil of clouds, and the cold cuts sharper than ever. I fumble to open the door, fingers stiff from the chill. Inside, our breath fogs in the air, and there’s an uncomfortable, bone-deep cold that only a fire could push back.
Dash reaches for the kindling, but I stop him, shaking my head. “Forget the fire,” I murmur, too exhausted to think about tending to it. “Let’s just get under the blankets. They’ll keep us warm enough.”
He hesitates, studying me like he’s considering convincing me otherwise, but then he nods, pulling the blankets back. I kick off my boots and slip in beside him, curling up on my side. The cold is fierce, but soon he lies down and pulls me to him, wrapping his arms around me under the blankets. His warmth spreads quickly, and I let out a sigh, letting myself relax against him. It reminds me of our first night together.
“Better?” he asks softly, his voice a low rumble I can feel through his chest.
“Much,” I whisper, closing my eyes. “Body heat was always the better option anyway.”
For a while, we lie there in silence, the kind that feels both heavy and comforting at once. I try to let the day go, but it’s as if all the worries of camp are still tangled up in my mind. I can feel the weight of it pressing down on me, unwilling to let me drift off.
“Can’t sleep?” he asks gently, like he already knows the answer.
“Not yet.” I sigh. “There’s just too much… up here.” I tap my head lightly, trying for a small smile. “If only I could flip a switch and turn it all off for the night.”
Dash chuckles softly, a warm sound that melts some of the tension in my chest. “If only. How about you try telling me something embarrassing?” There’s a hint of mischief in his tone. “Bet that’ll help.”
I groan, nudging him with my elbow. “Oh, no. You’re not getting any embarrassing stories out of me.”
“Come on,” he says, his voice light and coaxing. “Just one. I promise I won’t laugh.”
The sincerity in his voice makes me look at him, raising an eyebrow. “You’re definitely going to laugh.”
But he doesn’t waver, just gives me a look so full of boyish expectation that I can’t help but give in. “Fine,” I say, huffing out a reluctant laugh. “When I was six, I was convinced I could talk to animals. So every day, I’d sit outside and have these… intense conversations with squirrels and birds, telling them all about my day.”
He chuckles, shaking his head. “And did they answer back?”
“Oh, they answered,” I say, cringing. “I bribed a squirrel with nuts for weeks, and he actually started following me around. But one day, I ran out of snacks, and he wasn’t happy about it. Chased me halfway back to the house, and my dad had to come outside to scare him off with a broom.”
Dash tries to hold in his laughter, but it’s no use; he’s laughing quietly, his breath warm against my shoulder. “So, basically, you almost had your own squirrel sidekick.”
“Oh, yes. I’m sure I would’ve made quite the impression at school,” I reply, rolling my eyes. But I can’t help laughing, and the weight I’ve been carrying all day feels just a little lighter.
We settle into a comfortable silence, and I realize how much I needed this—a shared laugh, a little ease to the usual heaviness. “Thanks for this,” I say, glancing up at him. “For… well, just being here.”
His smile softens, his gaze warm as it meets mine. “Anytime, Sage,” he says, his voice steady and sincere, and something in me unwinds just a little more.
For a long time, we lie there, close and quiet, and even though I know tomorrow will come with all the same worries, right now, I feel okay. I feel more than okay. The weight of the world feels like it’s lifted, just a little, replaced by the warmth of this moment, and I find myself drifting off, content.