The light is failing. Ancient PINE and SPRUCE trees form a dense, suffocating canopy. The air is cold, damp.
JORDAN (17), wearing pristine sneakers now caked in mud, kicks at a rotten log. A spray of damp mulch flies into the air. He’s vibrating with anxiety.
NOAH (17), quiet and focused, ignores him. He holds a small, cheap compass, but his eyes are closed. He’s trying to feel the breeze, to smell the air. All he feels is the chill seeping through his jeans.
Noah doesn’t answer.
SOUND: A nervous, rhythmic snapping of a twig in Jordan’s hands.
Jordan moves closer, his voice a little higher now.
Noah opens his eyes. He really looks at Jordan—the popular kid, now just a scared boy lost in the woods.
The words are sharp. Jordan’s mouth snaps shut, stunned.
Noah scans the trees. Poplar, birch, spruce. He walks to a large POPLAR, its bark pale grey. He runs his hand over it. On one side, the bark is rougher, darker, clinging with moss. The north side.
He glances up. The sky is a thick, impenetrable grey. No stars. Useless.
Jordan fumbles for his phone. He jabs at the screen. Nothing. It’s a black, dead rectangle. He looks at it, utterly betrayed.
Noah’s voice is flat, betraying the knot of fear in his own stomach. He turns and walks deeper into the woods, leaving Jordan to follow.
A small clearing sheltered by a massive granite outcrop. Beneath a thick, old spruce, the ground is surprisingly dry.
Noah points to the dead, low-hanging branches on the surrounding trees.
Jordan just nods, his arrogance gone. He begins snapping branches.
SOUND: Sharp CRACKS of dry wood echo in the unnerving quiet.
Noah pulls a small KNIFE from his pocket. He peels paper-thin curls of bark from a birch tree, gathering a handful of the flammable material. He then carves a small depression into a thick piece of poplar wood.
Jordan drops an armful of branches, his face pale in the gloom.
Noah doesn’t look up. He finds a straight, dry stick and fits it into the depression. He starts spinning it between his palms, fast and hard.
CLOSE ON Noah’s hands, rubbing, spinning. The friction is agonizing. His muscles burn. Sweat beads on his forehead despite the cold. Nothing. Not even a wisp of smoke.
His teeth are chattering.
He stops, breathing hard, his hands numb. A wave of despair washes over him. He shoves a hand in his jacket’s inner pocket... and his fingers brush against a small, waterproof container.
His fire kit.
Relief hits him like a physical blow. He keeps his face impassive as he pulls out a tiny FERRO ROD and a metal STRIKER.
He scrapes the striker hard against the rod.
A shower of brilliant WHITE SPARKS erupts into the pile of birch shavings. They catch immediately. A tiny, fragile flame blossoms in the oppressive darkness.
Jordan lets out an audible GASP.
Carefully, Noah feeds the flame. Tiny twigs, then larger ones. The fire grows, crackling to life, pushing back the shadows.
The warmth is immediate, life-giving.
They sit in silence, watching the flames dance. The firelight makes their small shelter feel like the only safe place in the world.
The question is clumsy, ignorant, but genuinely curious. Noah almost smiles.
Jordan hugs his knees, staring into the flames.
Noah looks at him, surprised by the confession.
He gestures to the wall of darkness beyond their fire.
They look at each other across the flickering flames. The space between them, usually filled with antagonism, is empty. A comfortable silence settles.
CRACK!
A sound splits the night. Loud. Heavy. Like a massive tree branch snapping under an immense weight. It’s close.
It’s followed by a low, guttural GRUNT. A sound that is definitively not a deer or a moose.
Jordan’s head snaps toward the sound, his eyes wide with pure terror.
Noah freezes. His hand slowly reaches for a thick, sharp-pointed stick lying by the fire.
The fire suddenly feels very, very small. The darkness presses in, no longer empty. They are not alone.
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