DEREK
The trout crackled over the flames, the skin curling and blistering as the fat sizzled into the fire. It smelled amazing—woodsmoke, lemon, the faint tang of salt I’d sprinkled from a packet I found in the supply box. I was proud of the sear, honestly. Not bad for fish cooked on a stick beside a makeshift fire at the edge of nowhere.
I slid it off the skewer and onto one of the tin plates, careful not to burn my fingers. Aiden was perched on a log nearby, swinging his legs, poking the ground with a stick like it owed him money.
I handed the plate over. “Bon appétit, my young woodsman.”
He took it, looked down at the perfectly cooked trout…
…and wrinkled his nose.
“But I don’t like fish.”
I blinked. “You—you helped catch it.”
“I didn’t know we were going to eat it.”
“I said we
