When we are deep into the forest, Caleb stops running. Turning toward me, he gently pushes me into the shadow of a tree. Reaching down, he grabs fistfuls of mud and rising again, begins to cover my arms in the muck.
“Caleb?” I ask.
“To disguise your scent,” he tells me. “Help me. Here.”
He passes over some of the mud and I begin to rub it into my exposed skin. Caleb takes extra time covering my neck and behind my ears. He works softly on my face, apologizing as he lightly presses the dirt to my forehead, cheeks and nose.
I’m not angry. I understand. Whatever keeps me safe is what I will go along with. For both our sakes.
When I’m more or less covered with a sheet of mud, I feel sticky and disgusting, but I don’t complain at all.
Caleb almost seems pained by what he has to say next,
