Page 210 of Silent Shadows

My camera and recorder are within easy reach in my backpack’s side pocket.

Every instinct of my former life lights up at once. My body is screaming at me. Record. Capture. Think of the headline. The episode. The thing people would kill for. The thing that changes everything.

My hand even twitches toward my phone in my back pocket. It’s like a reflex.

Then, the thing looks up again. Watching us.

A living thing standing quiet in moonlight. A thing that has somehow survived this long because people never knew for sure. And suddenly the impulse to record feels wrong.

Maya keys in. “Guys.”

I look towards her and Jax, standing a few football fields away, but visible in the light of Maya’s computer.

Jax’s voice cracks. “Holy shit.”

I see him inch closer to Maya in the light, Maya inching closer to him at the same time. They’re shoulder to shoulder, barely touching. He lifts his flight goggles, looking down at Maya, and she nods. Something in my chest squeezes.

Loud, chaotic, impulsive Jax. The internet gremlin and content machine. The drone’s light turns solid for maybe ten seconds, then it dips once before rising. Higher. Away. The red recording light never blinks.

Nobody says anything.

I look to Taylor next. Far above, I watch her lower binoculars. She freezes, then straightens her shoulders. Owen reaches over and grabs her phone from her hand, dropping it into the truck. He pulls the mounted camera down and unplugs it.

No explanation or resistance. Like he understands instinctively that proof and possession are cousins.

“I’m going dark,” Maya exhales shakily through static. I glance back towards her and her thermal camera light dies.

Silence rushes back.

Beside me, Miles hasn’t moved, still gazing into the wash.

His eyes are wet. Not quite crying, but close enough.

Slowly, carefully, he kneels. It’s like his body forgot how to stand under the weight of the moment. With one hand, his fingertips press against sandstone. With his other, he grabs mine. His head rests against my leg as I stand next to him. Steadying.

And I know. He isn’t seeing Bigfoot. Not really. He’s seeing his mom, coming back from her hike, talking about what she thought she saw. He’s seeing road trips. Sleeping bags. A version of himself that hoped hard enough to survive grief. The family he built and kept safe. Who always rally around him. All of it here in the moonlight.

I look down at him, and our eyes lock. He’s wrecked, but at peace. Like a question inside him finally stopped screaming.

“I know,” I whisper. Because I do.

He nods once. Can’t speak.

The thing in the wash shifts again. Its attention moves over us one last time. From group to group. Patient and quiet.

It nods, then it turns. One glance over its shoulder. Then it’s gone, three long steps into silent shadows.

Simply swallowed by land that knew how to keep secrets long before people arrived.

Nobody speaks for several seconds. Maybe minutes.

The desert exhales around us and the wind returns.

The radio crackles.

“Did anyone else just have, like…” Jax sniffles. Actually sniffles. “…a life-changing experience?”

Taylor answers first. “Damn straight.”