033 — The Last Campfire | Talon Z. Gray

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Seven of us huddled around the fire—
strangers bound by hunger and the thin thread of a shared path.

We had come from opposite ends of the map:
some trafficked here against their will,
others who’d spent their life savings
only to stall before the finish line.

One had fled the very place
the rest of us still dreamed of reaching.
That should have been the first red flag.

The desert air cut like broken glass.
The cold gnawed through thin jackets
as we leaned closer to the coals.
Even warmth felt borrowed.

Someone spoke of home,
their voice trembling from more than the chill.
Another recited a broadcast—
parroting promises of shelter,
papers,
safety.

But those words had long since turned to ash.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to be.
Fires are meant for food, for laughter—
not survival.
Not this kind of survival.

Tomorrow, another group would arrive.
New faces.
New stories.
The same quiet despair.

We shared what little we had:
stale crackers, bottled water,
and the fragile hope
that if we leaned in close enough,
we might carry each other
across the darkness.

When the embers burned low,
someone whispered:

"Going back is a trap.
Forward is the only way.
Even if we vanish out here,
let them know we tried."