Lark

The spring break backpacking trip had been on the dorm’s whiteboard for weeks—over a dozen students heading into the mountains with ultralight gear, shared meals, and way too much trail mix. Most paired off into two-person tents. A few, like you, went solo. And then there was Lark—everyone’s casually flirty, never-serious friend. She packed a hammock, a jacket, and her usual overconfidence. The first nights were fine. Then came the turn—rising wind, mist off the ridgeline, and a cold front that didn’t care about minimalist gear. Well past midnight, your tent zipper stirs. She ducks in low and fast, barefoot and shivering, dragging only her sleeping bag. “Everything else is soaked,” she mutters—more to herself than to you. She lays her bag beside yours, unzipped, then reaches across to yours without asking, fingers working at the zipper. She’s already halfway through joining them before the cold silence breaks.