Static in the Grey Wood

The zipper on the tent was jammed, and the silence between them was louder than the wind coming off the frozen lake.

The zipper was stuck. It had snagged on the orange nylon flap about halfway down, and Sam’s fingers were too numb to work it loose. He tugged at it, a short, frustrated jerk that made the whole tent shudder, but the metal teeth just bit deeper into the fabric. It was twenty below, maybe worse with the wind coming off Lake Nipigon, and he was standing there fighting with a cheap zipper while his breath steamed up his glasses. He took off his glove. Bad idea. The air bit his skin immediately, a dry, sharp sting that felt less like cold and more like a physical impact. He picked at the fabric with a thumbnail that was chewed down to the quick.

Devon was behind him, cracking dead branches. The sound was like gunshots in the quiet. Snap. Snap. Snap. He wasn’t saying anything. He hadn’t said anything since they parked the truck three kilometers back and hiked in. The silence wasn’t peaceful. It was heavy, like a wet wool blanket draped over Sam’s head. It made the ringing in Sam's ears louder. That high-pitched electronic whine that never really went away. He focused on the zipper. Just fix the zipper. If he fixed the zipper, he could put his sleeping bag inside, and if he put the sleeping bag inside, he could sit down, and if he sat down, maybe his heart would stop hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.

"Don't force it," Dev said. His voice was flat. No inflection. Just data.

Sam jumped. He hadn't heard Dev walk up. The snow dampened everything, absorbed the crunch of boots. "I'm not," Sam said. He was lying. He had been about to rip the thing open.

Dev threw a pile of wood onto the cleared patch of snow. Birch, mostly. Good bark for starting, but the wood itself looked wet. "You force it, you break the teeth. Then we’re sleeping open to the wind. I’m not freezing because you have no patience, Sam."

There it was. The subtext. *I'm not freezing because you're an idiot. I'm not suffering because you messed up.* Sam let go of the zipper and shoved his hand back into his glove. The fleece lining was already cold. "It's just snagged. I got it."

Dev didn't move. He stood there in his black parka, the one with the duct tape on the left shoulder, staring at the back of Sam's head. Sam could feel the stare. It was an itch between his shoulder blades. He wanted to turn around and shout, but he didn't have the energy. He was hungry. His stomach was twisting around a cramp, and all he could think about was the bag of beef jerky in the truck. He should have grabbed it. Why didn't he grab it? Stupid. Just like the zipper. Just like the money.

The money. The thought made Sam’s mouth taste like copper. Seven hundred dollars. It wasn’t a fortune to some people, maybe, but it was everything they had saved for the equipment. The chainsaws. The safety gear. The plan. The plan was simple: buy the gear, get the contract clearing brush for the hydro line come spring, make real money. Get out of the cycle. And now the account balance was twelve dollars and forty cents.

Sam finally worked the fabric loose. The zipper slid down with a satisfying rasp. "Open," he muttered.

Dev didn't applaud. He crouched down by the wood and started stripping birch bark with his knife. The blade was sharp; Dev kept his tools perfect. Sam watched the curls of bark fall onto the snow. They looked like paper. "We need to talk about the bank app," Dev said, not looking up. He struck a ferro rod. Sparks showered onto the bark. One caught. A tiny orange flame struggled against the grey light.

Sam felt the blood drain out of his face. He knew it was coming. He knew it from the moment Dev picked him up and didn't turn on the radio. "Not now, man. Let's get the fire going first."

"Fire's going," Dev said. He fed a small twig into the flame. The smoke smelled sweet and acrid. "We're talking now. Before it gets dark. Because I don't want to be sleeping next to a liar in the pitch black."

Sam turned around. The wind hit his face, drying his eyes. He blinked hard. "I didn't lie."

"You didn't say anything. That's lying. I went to pay the deposit on the Stihl saw this morning. Card declined. Insufficient funds." Dev looked up then. His eyes were dark, tired. Not angry. Disappointed. That was worse. Anger you could fight. Disappointment just sat there like a rock in your gut. "Where is it, Sam?"

Sam looked at the trees. Black spruce. ragged, uneven. They looked like calm, silent judges. A crow called out from somewhere deep in the bush, a harsh *caw-caw*. Sam wished he was the crow. Just flying over this mess. "I needed it," Sam said. His voice cracked. He sounded twelve years old.

"For what?" Dev stood up. He was taller than Sam, broader. He took up space. "We had a plan. We worked all fall for that cash. Splitting wood, hauling scrap. That wasn't free money. That was sweat. Where is it?"

"I owed a guy," Sam said. It was a half-truth. The worst kind. He shifted his weight. The snow crunched under his left boot. His toes were starting to go numb. He wiggled them, but he couldn't feel the pinky toe on his right foot.

"You owed a guy," Dev repeated. He kicked a clump of snow. "Who? Rick? The guys from town? You gambling again, Sam? Is that it? You put our future into a parlays app?"

"It wasn't gambling," Sam lied. It was totally gambling. Sports bets. A 'sure thing' on a UFC fight that went sideways in the second round. He felt the phantom vibration of his phone in his pocket. Probably a notification. *Deposit bonus! Reload now!* He wanted to throw the phone into the lake.

"Don't lie to me." Dev stepped closer. "I can see it on your face. You look like a dog that got into the garbage. Seven hundred bucks. Gone."

"I'll pay it back," Sam said, desperate. "I'll pick up extra shifts at the gas station. I'll ask my auntie—"

"Your auntie doesn't have it. And the gas station isn't hiring until May. You know this." Dev turned away, running a hand over his toque. He looked exhausted. "It's not about the money, Sam. It's about the fact that you looked me in the eye yesterday when we planned this trip and didn't say a word. You let me buy the gas. You let me buy the food. Knowing you cleaned us out."

Sam didn't have an answer. There was no answer. He looked at the fire. It was growing, eating the small twigs, hungry for the bigger branches. It didn't care about their problems. It just consumed. "I thought I could win it back before you noticed," Sam whispered.

Dev laughed. It was a sharp, bitter sound. "That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard. That's addict talk, Sam. That's 'my dad' talk."

That hit. Sam flinched. Dev's dad was a cautionary tale in their town. A ghost who only appeared when he needed twenty bucks. "I'm not him," Sam snapped.

"You're acting like him." Dev grabbed a larger log and slammed it onto the fire. Sparks flew up, swirling in the wind before dying in the snow. "We're stuck out here. Just the two of us. And I don't trust you. How does that work, Sam? How do we camp for two days when I don't trust you to not steal the change out of my console?"

"I wouldn't steal from you," Sam said, but the words felt hollow. He literally just had. Maybe not from the console, but from the pot. It was the same thing.

"You already did." Dev sat down on a log, his back to Sam. He stared into the fire. "Just set up your bag. Don't talk to me for a bit. I need to think about if I'm driving you home tonight or if we're sticking this out."

Sam stood there. The cold was seeping through his boots now, creeping up his ankles. He felt small. The forest felt massive, endless miles of nothing but trees and rocks and snow. He was alone. Even with Dev sitting five feet away, he was completely alone. He turned back to the tent. The zipper was fixed, but the door hung open, a dark mouth waiting to swallow him. He crawled inside. It smelled like mildew and cold plastic. He unrolled his sleeping bag, his hands shaking. Not from the cold. From the adrenaline crash. From the realization that he might have just torpedoed the only friendship that mattered.

Outside, the wind picked up. It howled through the tops of the spruce trees. A low, moaning sound. Sam lay on top of his unzipped bag, staring at the orange nylon ceiling, listening to the snap of the fire and the silence of his best friend. He checked his phone. 12% battery. No signal. Just a glowing screen showing the time. 4:12 PM. The sun was already gone. It was going to be a long night.