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Chapter 43: Sawyer

The tent was small, one of those ultra-light backpacking numbers that folded up to practically nothing. To the front, a circle of stones marked the remnants of a fire from the night before. Gear, if there was any, must've been inside the tent. Nothing stirred in the long, dawn shadows, but I didn't go any closer. I could move in silence, but I couldn't move fast. Not yet.

My chest wound had closed up in the dark hours before sunrise, the whistle-gurgle blessedly changing to a wheeze. My collapsed lung still hadn't re-inflated, and I'd been coughing up blood off and on for a few hours now. That limited my capabilities of exertion, which meant I had to be smart rather than rash. Rushing the tent and tearing it open without knowing who was inside and how they might be armed would just be foolish. So I bellied down at the crest of the ridge above to wait and rest.