Page 33 of When the Living Fall (Song Of The Dead #2)

The pale morning light seeps through the trees, the weak rays fighting to penetrate the heavy canopy when I crawl out of the tent the next morning. I’ve gotten used to sleeping in uncomfortable places—the forest floor, concrete floor, straight asphalt—and this was the best yet. The growing bruises on my body from the day before want to protest, though.

Nearby, the soft sound of rustling catches my attention. Zoey is crouched over her bag, her movements deliberate and tense, her brow furrowed.