I cooked half the sausages on the wonky grill and ate them with my fingers. I wrapped a potato in foil and threw it into the flames. After what I imagined to be an hour, I took it out again. It was blackened on the outside and raw in the middle, but when it had cooled enough to hold I ate it like an apple. Despite Wendy and Stefan’s advice, I built the fire until the flames licked up to the height of a man. It was too hot to sit by. For a few minutes I stood at the edge of its heat and felt the darkness press against my back. Then I sat inside the door of my tent and waited. The fire died down a little and I stretched out on the bedroll in my sleeping bag. The river is much louder at night. I zip up the front of the tent, listen to the white noise and watch the firelight play across the fabric above me. A shadow falls between my tent and the fire. I see the shape of a man standing with his hands on his hips. It looks sharp, like the silhouette of open scissor blades. It flickers for a moment and is gone.
