The Mating Run by Leeka

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Ettie’s back has been something that I'm used to following all the years we've
been together. The only time that I'm ever in front of Ettie is during our morning
jogs, but that's because Ettie says that she’s tired and worn out. Though judging
from her lab results, I knew that she was lying, probably just so that I could feel
better about myself.

And so as she leads the way, I'm not surprised in the slightest. I grip the strap of
Zeke's bag tighter around my shoulders, sneaking a glance to the corpse of the
Hunter beneath my feet. Bending down, my hand instinctively snat ched the map
clutched in the dead Hunter's grip. The edges were now crumpled and stained
with blood, but I ignore it, safely tucking the map away inside my pocket.

For some reason, I stole a glance at Ettie, ensuring her gaze remained fixed
ahead, unwavering. I didn't want her to see that I had a map to begin with.
Where are we going?

Somewhere safe.

A few minutes after, I spot a makeshift hut looming ahead. My eyes widened with
amazement at the sight, not expecting such a place in the middle of the forest.
Ettie led the way with an assurance that resonated with the familiarity of a place
that, despite its primal surroundings, echoed with the heartbeat of home. The
logs. and intertwined branches formed a protective cocoon, a sanctuary, just
what Ettie would have wanted.

As we approached, Ettie's silhouette against the backdrop of the rustic dwelling
embodied a semblance of normalcy, a stark contrast to the predatory chaos
lurking beyond its wooden walls. The scent of damp earth and the comforting
musk of wood permeated the air, momentarily soothing the raw edges of
apprehension etched upon my consciousness.

Ettie, pushed a curtain of vines that served as a door to the side, urging me to
come inside. Carefully, I walked through the vines, expecting more people but
was

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surprised to see that we were alone. Ettle then unceremoniously dropped her
arrows and quiver to the side, propped against the log wall.

4

“Drop your bag there, Alina,” Ettie suggested, her voice a thread of vulnerability
woven into the tapestry of the forest's symphony. Her eyes, reflective pools
mirroring the scars of our fractured history, held a fragile plea for trust.

A fleeting hesitation gripped me, my fingers unwilling to relinquish the tether to
security that my bag represented, I didn't think it was safe to be here empty.
handed, and I didn’t have it in me to trust Ettle, just yet. She looks more like a
stranger than my friend as of the moment.

Ettie, her eyes catching the flicker of hesitation and hurt, spoke with a measured
acceptance that carried the burden of understanding.

“It's okay, Alina,” she said, a sigh traversing the divide between us. “I get it. Trust
isn’t something that mends overnight, especially after everything.”

The admission, hung in the air like an unspoken vow. Even I felt guilty, especially
with how I can’t even deny it, even though I knew that there's nothing to be guilty
of. My bag, a repository of survival etched upon its frayed surface, remained
tethered to my grasp-a silent testament to the jagged contours of our shared
journey.

The hut, a haven cloaked in the shadows of secrecy, beckoned us into its
embrace. Ettie’s invitation, a delicate dance between hospitality and the
unspoken ache of redemption, echoed through the air.

I chose a corner, my back to the wall, a calculated stance that mirrored the
lingering specters of caution. Ettle, her movements fluid as a leaf carried by the
wind, busied herself with tasks that spoke of a routine etched within the confines
of our shared sanctuary.

She cast a fleeting glance in my direction, a silent acknowledgment of the chasm
yet to be bridged. The logs c rackled in the fire, their dance of shadows an
intricate ballet that mirrored the tumultuous interplay of emotions within the
confines of my heart.

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“Are you hungry, Alina?” The words, imbued with a sense of hospitality, held the
power to bridge the gap or deepen the fissures that lingered between us.
Caught off guard, I was about to utter the customary denial-a well-practiced
shield to conceal the gnawing emptiness within-when an involuntary rumble
emanated from my stomach. Our eyes met, and, for a moment, the solemnity
melted into laughter a shared acknowledgment of the universality of hunger, a
reminder that, beneath our veils of animosity, we were, at our core, beings
tethered by shared needs.

Laughter, that age-old remedy for fractured connections, reverberated through
the hut, momentarily suspending the weight of distrust that had become the silent
companion to our every interaction. The echo of shared mirth cast a flicker of
familiarity upon the walls, like the fleeting warmth of a sunbeam breaking through
storm clouds.

Yet, as laughter subsided, an awkward silence descended, an unspoken
acknowledgment of the precipice we stood upon. Ettie, ever the resilient spirit,
cleared her throat, her eyes now fixed on the fire, flames casting shadows upon
the contours of her face.

“I have some meat,” she confessed, her voice a hesitant murmur seeking solace
amidst the uncertainty. “Even bacon.” The admission, spoken with the fragility of
a secret unveiled, lingered in the air like a whispered plea for acceptance.

The revelation stilled the air between us, a shared breath suspended in the
uncharted territories of reconciliation. The question hung, unspoken, in the space
between our gazes-a question tethered to the origin of that elusive meat.

“Where did you get that?” I asked, the words slicing through the uneasy silence
like a blade seeking truth. Ettie, caught in the crossfire of honesty and
vulnerability, blushed-a shade of vulnerability etched upon her features.

“A sponsor,” she confessed, a bit embaras sed. “I've gotten most of what helped
me survive this long from sponsors. I guess they kind of like me.”

The flickering fire painted the huts walls in warm hues, shadows dancing in
rhythm with the ebb and flow of our unspoken emotions. The cozy interior, a
haven

[e]

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crafted from the rugged simplicity of our surroundings, harbored secrets not born
of the forest's generosity but whispered by unseen sponsors. My gaze, a curious
intruder, sought clues amidst the hushed ambiance of our fragile camaraderie.
Against the rough-hewn backdrop of logs and leaves, incongruent elements
stood as silent testaments to a reality tainted by the unseen hands of
benefactors. A fluffy blanket, its softness an affront to the c oar se textures of the
forest, adorned a makeshift bed. Pillows, plump and indulgent, gathered in a
corner-a luxury. inconceivable in the wilderness I had come to know.

A basket, not woven from forest vines but from some synthetic material foreign to
our realm, cradled a trove of treasures. Fruits, pristine and untouched by the
blemishes of nature, lay nestled beside a loaf of bread-a bounty bestowed by ant
unseen hand, a stark contrast to the scavenging existence that defined our days.
As my eyes swept over this unintended display of opulence, a disquietude
simmered within-a dissonance that struck a chord of discomfort within the
recesses of my consciousness. It was an unwelcome quest, an ugly emotion that
gnawed at the edges of camaraderie-a jealous pang that clawed at the bonds we
sought to reforge.

The dichotomy between gratitude and envy, once a foreign concept, now
unfolded as a disconcerting truth-a revelation that mirrored the complexities.
woven into the fabric of our newfound reality. Ettie, my friend and compatriot in
the theatre of survival, stood at the intersection of fortune and misfortune. Her
hut, a sanctuary veiled in borrowed comforts, bore witness to the unseen forces
that dictated the ebb and flow of our existence.

In the silence that lingered, pregnant with unspoken sentiments, my gaze locked
onto the basket-the embodiment of indulgences foreign to the calloused palms of
forest dwellers. A surge of bitterness, a visceral reaction to the apparent disparity,
clawed at the fragile tapestry of understanding that threaded our friendship.

The aroma of sizzling bacon, a fragrance so allen in our rustic abode, wafted
through the air, awakening my senses from the desolate slumber of our survival
routine. Ettie, armed with a pot and pan from mysterious sponsors, orchestrated
a culinary symphony amidst the echoes of the forest.

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“Want a slice?” Her voice, a melodic invitation, cut through the ambient cr ckling
of the fire. She wielded a spatula with a dexterity that hinted at a familiarity with
tools beyond the purview of our primal existence.

I nodded, my stomach voicing its approval with an impatient growl. Ettie, bearing
a plate that seemed plucked from the realms of abundance, presented the bacon
with a flourish-a mosaic of golden perfection that defied the frugality of our
surroundings.

As she placed a slice before me, the glistening fat beckoning like an ephemeral
indulgence, I hesitated. The plate, an emblem of opulence gifted by benevolent
sponsors, reflected the paradoxes of our existence-a momentary escape from
the grim clutches of scarcity.

I accepted the offering, my fingers trembling with a fusion of anticipation and
apprehension. The bite, a communion with decadence, resonated through my
senses a gustatory revelation that momentarily eclipsed the monotony of our
survivalist fare. Ettie, mirroring my actions, savored the richness of the bacon in
shared silence.

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