In the camp.
A murmur in the tent where the boy slept beside the radio that hadn't spoken in days.
Carmen stood alone near the water trough, her sleeves rolled to the elbows, her wrists scarred with quiet burns from kitchen fires and first-aid kits.
The sound of goat bells floated in the valley air.
She watched the path.
She didn't know why.
Her hands were wet and cracked and she'd spent the morning boiling roots to make something like broth for the evening meal, but now she just stood.
She knew.
The path had changed.
Behind her, old Salvador pulled Tomas' blanket tighter over the boy's shoulder.
"He's not slept properly since the squirrel sang," he said quietly.
Carmen didn't answer.
Elias sat by the tent flaps, tying off a sack of spare bandages they'd gathered from a cache buried three fields over.
He looked up.
"I hear boots," he said.
No one moved.
Not yet.
The steps were slow.
Not urgent.
Not hurried.
Not searching.
