𝐂𝐎𝐋𝐃 𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐒 | 𝘤. 𝘨𝘳𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘴

ten. the cursed fig tree

Once the bottle was full, I capped it, and grabbed the next. I'd been filling them up for minutes on end. The group was running dangerously low on basic necessities, meaning everyone was scattered throughout the forest, gathering whatever they could before sundown.

We'd made camp about a mile or so back. I'd only come this far to escape Judith's high-pitched crying that'd been pushing me toward the brink of insanity for hours on end. It wasn't even so much about the noise itself. It was the concept. Jealousy I couldn't bring myself to be released of.

A rustling came from beyond the creek bed, a hand moving to my hip in unavoidable instinct. I stayed here in the water, watching closely as a body came from the heavy treeline. But it wasn't one of the dead. It was Carl.

I blinked at him, suddenly realizing how strange I must have looked here. Pockets full of fruit, water bottles secured beneath my arms, shoes left on the bank. Not to mention, I was standing in the river. The edges of my rolled-up jeans were soaked, but I hadn't minded the cooling sensation.

He stepped forward, leaves brushing against the top of his hat. "What are you doing?"

I blinked again. "Fillin' bottles. You?"

My hair picked up in the warm wind. Dark, wavy strands rippled softly against the air. I knew it was long-due for a chop, but I resented the idea of cutting it now. It had gotten almost waist length, and it was easier to pull into an updo, than cut it on my own.

"I was looking for you." He admitted. "Daryl said you'd be here."

I waded, the cold water numbing my tingling skin. "I thought we could use some water."

He cocked his head at me. "How did that end with you actually in the water?"

I grimaced. I hoped it would hide the embarrassment on my face. "I don't know—I just thought it would feel nice?"

"Does it?" He asked, taking off his hat and leaning over to set it beside my boots.

He ruffled his hand through his sweaty mass of hair. I guess we both needed a trim.

I nodded. "Yeah. It cools you right down."

To my surprise, he didn't look at me with judgement. In fact, he balanced himself against the trunk of a tree, and pulled his own shoes off. He didn't bother with his pants, or shirt. He just walked straight in, wincing at the pin-prickling temperature. I understood the expression—when I'd first gone in, the shock had single-handedly stolen all warmth from my body.

He tilted his head back, as if this river was a baptism of survival.

When he finally gained some sense back, he looked to me with eyes stricken in vulnerability. "You were right."

I only smiled. "I know. It feels nice."

"No—," He said, turning to face me, resulting in his taller body to block the sun. "I meant about Terminus."

The figs in my pocket suddenly threatened to drag me down. Realistically, it was only the weight his sentence held on me. It was easier to blame it on the fruit, however.

I tucked a strand behind my ear. "I'm always right. Get used to it."

The tone I used was playful. It took everything in me to get it to that point. If I hadn't, it might've sounded more like a faltering voice, on the brink of tears. Carl only shook his head, an eyeroll resulting from my sarcasm. I tilted my head, eyes resting on him. He didn't seem distraught by my choice in attitude. He was either used to it, or, happier to talk about it as if it was only an inside joke between us.