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No one answers him.

Jacob steps up beside me, his breathing still heavy from the hike back. Sweat darkens the collar of his shirt despite the cold, and his hair sticks up in six different directions. He looks toward the city, then at the can in my hand.

“Tomorrow,” he says. “We’ll find some tomorrow.”

I look toward the city beyond the trees. It’s dark now, skyline swallowed by shadow, the last light fading behind the buildings until the whole place looks like a mouth waiting to close.

My grip tightens on the empty can. Tomorrow is another chance. For now, we might be stuck here.

Forever.

Fuck.

Poppy stands near the edge of camp, half in shadow beneath a bare-limbed tree. Her feet are planted too wide, her small pink bow clutched in both hands. A piece of hair has escaped her braid and keeps sticking to her cheek in the wind. She pulls the string back slow and uneven, arms shaking before she lets it snap forward without releasing an arrow.

My shoulders loosen. I set the empty can down and head her way. Poppy spots me halfway there. A small, unsure smile pulls at her mouth.

I pull out the notebook. Want to go shooting?

She doesn’t wait for another answer. She takes off, loose hair flying behind her in waves, boots kicking up dead leaves as she runs straight to Clair.

Clair stands with Trish near one of the cars, rifle strap across her chest, one hand resting against her thigh like the old scar is talking again. Poppy tugs on her sleeve, words spilling out fast, hands moving even faster.

For a second, I think Clair might say no.

Then she nods.

Clair just handed me the most important piece of her heart and is trusting me not to drop it.

Maybe the letter reached her.

Maybe I’m still too chickenshit to ask.

Poppy turns back toward me, already grinning. “She said yes!”

I nod once, a smile tugging at the corner of my mouth, then jerk my head toward the trees.

She falls into step beside me, energy bouncing off her in waves. Behind us, Clair watches for a moment longer before camp pulls her back.

I feel the weight of her trust with every step.

We move deeper into the trees, far enough that camp noise fades but not so far I can’t hear someone call.

I set up a rough target against a fallen trunk, using a flat piece of bark and a strip of cloth to mark the center.

Poppy plants her feet the way I showed her, shoulders tight, bow lifted.

Too tight.

I tap her shoulder until she lowers it, nudge one boot wider, then point to her knees.

Bend.

She follows.

I step back and motion for her to release.

She pulls the string back. Her arms shake, but she holds it longer this time. Better control. She releases, and the arrow hits low, thudding into the dirt a few inches in front of the log.