We waited under the tent for the morning to rise. I don't think either of us slept. I listened to him breathe, a harsh raspy breath that set my already frayed nerves on end. I heard the crickets, and the leaves in the wind, and what sounded like the footsteps of wild animals as they crunched twigs on the ground. I gripped the blanket tighter around my body and wondered if our precautions would really ward off lions and bears. I don't know what he did, but whatever it was, it didn't involve me. His pride prohibited him from apologizing, obviously, but I thought maybe he'd make some small concession. Turn to me in the night, hold my hand, stroke my arm. But no, there was nothing, no reassuring gesture, even though he knew I was scared out of my mind.
In the morning, with a raging headache from the fight and the lack of sleep, I stormed out of the tent to pee, wash my face in the stream, and pack up our camp. He moved slowly, calmly, as if unaffected by me or our surroundings. I always envied him that, his composure.
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