The crisp air nipped her nose and cheeks. The rocks glistened with a crystalline film of ice.
The tent to her left where Father Booker and Batsa were sleeping was still and dark.
To her right, however—
That tent was undulating like three raccoons fighting in a burlap sack.
Dree belly-crawled out of her tent in the cold air, stretched to her feet, and walked toward it. A chill crept into her loose boots and jacket and trickled around her ankles and tummy.
More rustling, more scratching, and a very masculine whisper,“Hey. Seriously.”
“I’m allergic to something in Nepal. I took an allergy pill.”
“But if you move over there—”
“I can’t sleep curled up in a ball.”
“Well, I can’t sleep with my head hanging out of the tent, either.”
“Roll your sleeping bag that way. Keep rolling. I’ll try sleeping over there. Roll.Roll.”
“I haven’t been on the bottom of a pile like this since a theater-department cast party in college.”
“Maybe if we slept head-to-toe.”
“Weweresleeping head-to-toe. That’s how I got kicked in the eye.”
“Move over.You’re hogging the tent.”
“Me?Youneed to move. Your ass is in my face.”
“Bite me.”
“It smells like an open cesspool in here. Did someone trump?”
“Alfonso’s lentils upset my stomach. We French have delicate digestive tracts.”
“Yeah, right.That’s why you eat eels and old cheese and stuff. Keep moving. You’re lying right on top of me.”
“Hey!That had better be your elbow.”
“No, just happy to see you.”
“Isaak, keep your hands to yourself and try wedging under that tent eave some more.”
“I can’t. There’s a big rock over there. Make Alfonso move over.”
Her flashlight beam lit up the side of the tent.
“Shit,” said one male voice, probably Isaak. “You woke someone up.”
Another masculine voice—and Dree was pretty sure she recognized Augustine’s, no,Maxence’svoice—said, “It’s no one’s fault. I’ll apologize to them.”
Dree settled to her knees and whisper-asked,“Whatis going on in there?”
“Nothing,” Alfonso’s tenor voice said.
Dree shook her head. “My feet are getting cold. I’m coming in.”
