The air outside the truck hit me like a wall, hot, dry, stifling. The sun had started its slow descent, painting the camp in long, stretched-out shadows.
Bruce's truck door slammed shut behind me, a metallic thud that rattled my nerves more than it should have.
I inhaled deep, forcing myself to push down the unease creeping up my spine.
Martha walked ahead, her usual confident stride unshaken, but something about the way she moved was different.
I fell into step beside her, glancing at her from the corner of my eye. She wasn't looking at me.
The air felt thicker.
I barely turned my head, but I caught it.
Bruce was standing outside his truck, arms crossed over his broad chest, watching me.
His expression wasn't teasing. It wasn't annoyed.
It was concerned.
And that sent a cold shiver licking down my spine.
I scanned past him, past the rows of trucks and tarp-covered shelters, and felt it.
People were watching.
