Chapter 6 - Chapter 6: The First Loss** *From the perspective of Amos*

The wilderness had a way of making you feel small, like you were a speck caught in its jaws. I'd always been quiet, more content with the feel of wood under my hands than the chatter of men. But out here, in the endless stretch of pines and shadowed trails, silence wasn't a comfort—it was a warning. I'm Amos, a carpenter, thirty-five, with a knack for building things sturdy and true. I joined this caravan to find a place to call home, to set my roots in the lakes region. But after weeks of mud, cold, and fights, I was starting to wonder if the land wanted us at all. We'd been moving faster since shedding half our gear, the wagons lighter but our hearts heavier. The forest was a maze of bare branches now, autumn stripping the trees to bones. The air carried a chill that sank into your marrow, and the days grew shorter, the sun barely breaking through the gray. Ezekiel, Thomas, William, and I took turns scouting, but we all felt it—a creeping dread, like the wilderness was closing in. I kept my thoughts to myself, though. No sense stirring up trouble when we had plenty already. That evening, we made camp in a hollow, the ground soft with fallen leaves. The fire sputtered, struggling against the damp, and the settlers huddled close, their faces gaunt. Food was running low, and tempers were shorter. I was whittling a stick, shaping it into a toy horse for one of Henderson's boys, when I heard the shout. It was Mrs. Greene, her voice shrill enough to cut through the dusk. "Daniel! Where's Daniel?" Daniel was her nephew, a scrawny lad of twelve who'd been tagging along with her since his parents died back east. He'd wandered off to gather kindling, or so she thought. We all sprang up, the camp erupting into chaos. Thomas bellowed orders, organizing a search, while William grabbed a lantern, his face pale. Ezekiel checked the perimeter, his hammer in hand like a weapon. Father Michael moved among us, his stern voice calm but firm. "Stay together," he said. "The Lord watches over us, but we must be vigilant." I joined the search, my boots sinking into the leaf-strewn earth. The forest was dark, the lantern light barely cutting through the gloom. We called Daniel's name, our voices echoing back, unanswered. My chest tightened with every step. I'd seen boys like him get lost before—rivers, cliffs, wolves—but something about this felt different, like the silence itself was swallowing him. "Daniel!" I shouted, my throat raw. A rustle came from my left, and I turned, hoping to see the boy. But it was only a squirrel, darting into the underbrush. I cursed under my breath, the weight of the unknown pressing on me. The others were spreading out, their lanterns flickering like fireflies. Jedediah was ahead, his rifle ready, his eyes scanning the trees with that same tense look he'd had for days, like he was waiting for a beast to leap from the shadows. We searched for hours, the cold biting deeper as the night thickened. Father Michael stayed close to Mrs. Greene, who was sobbing now, clutching her shawl. "The Lord will guide him back," he told her, his hand on her shoulder. "Have faith." But his words sounded hollow, and I saw the strain in his eyes, his faith tested by the wilderness's indifference. It was William who found him. "Here!" he called, his voice breaking. I ran toward the sound, my heart pounding, and stopped dead when I saw it. Daniel was sprawled at the base of a rocky outcrop, his body twisted in a way that wasn't natural. Blood stained the stones beneath him, his head gashed open from a fall. His eyes were wide, frozen in terror, staring at something we couldn't see. Mrs. Greene screamed, collapsing beside him. Father Michael knelt, murmuring a prayer—"*Into thy hands, O Lord, we commend his spirit*"—but his voice shook. Thomas and Ezekiel stood silent, their faces grim. I wanted to look away, but I couldn't. The boy's small frame, so still, made my stomach churn. I'd built cradles for children back in Ohio, sturdy and warm. Now, all I could think of was the coffin we'd have to make. "He must've slipped," William said, his voice barely a whisper. "Climbed up there and fell." "Maybe," Jedediah muttered, but his eyes were on the trees, not the body. He hadn't said much since the search began, just stalked the edges of the group, his rifle never lowered. I wanted to ask what he was looking for, but the set of his jaw told me he wouldn't answer. We carried