I frown. “Did it say how much wind these things can handle?” I flip through the instruction booklet but, annoyingly, there’s no section titled “How Not to End Up in Oz When Camping in a Gale.”
One of the strings hanging from the outer tent, the ones I didn't bother doing anything with, flaps against the tent fabric in the wind. Hmm. With me in the tent, there is no way the tent will fly away so I’m sure it’s fine I didn’t peg the guy ropes.
Another gust of wind flaps the fabric violently.
“…Nah, it’s fine.”
I shove the thought away and return to the gas cooker, determined. “Right, listen here, you stubborn little—” I grip the canister with both hands and twist as hard as I can.
Click.
I freeze. “Oh.” I poke it gingerly. It’s actually attached.
I straighten my back, victorious once more. “Ladies and gentlemen, we have fire.”
I turn the knob, and with a satisfying whoosh, a little blue flame appears.
Immediately, I realise two things.
One: the inside of my tent is, in fact, a tent—a small, enclosed, very flammable space.Two: outside is not an option, because the wind is currently auditioning for a role in Twister.
I stare at the flame. The flame stares back.
“Nope.”
I twist the knob, snuffing out the flame before I manage to set myself—or my tent—on fire. Not today, death. Not today.
Leaning back, I assess my supplies. Right. What gourmet meal am I working with tonight?
Item one: A bottle of water. Useful, yes. Delicious? Not exactly.
Item two: Instant noodles, instant soup, and instant porridge—all requiring hot water that I do not have. Excellent.
Item three: One slightly bruised apple. Not exactly filling, but hey, it’s got vitamins.
Item four: The pack of Jammie Dodgers, courtesy of Lucy, who had solemnly pressed them into my hands at the motor services, telling me, "These are emergency biscuits, Ivy. In case you get hungry or sad.”
I pick up the biscuit packet, staring at it.
Well, Lucy, my love, I am both.
With a sigh, I tear it open and pull out a biscuit, biting into it as the wind howls outside. The tent flaps violently, and I flinch.
“Could you not?” I say to the weather, as if that might make a difference.
Thunder cracks overhead, loud enough to make my heart jump. The fabric of the tent shudders under the force of the wind, and I do a quick scan of the seams. Still holding. For now.
I crunch on the biscuit, chewing slowly. I should probably be more concerned about this storm.
The rain starts to hammer down properly now, the sound a relentless drumbeat against the tent. I adjust my sleeping bag around my shoulders, cocooning myself in what little warmth I can find.
I could go out and check the tent pegs again, but honestly? I don’t fancy getting drenched, and I’m not entirelyconvinced I wouldn’t just end up flying away like a very ungraceful human kite.
I take a sip of water, staring at my sad little pile of food. Well, this is bleak.
Another gust of wind rattles the whole tent, and I instinctively grip the edges of my sleeping bag tighter. But I shake off the moment of unease, forcing a smirk.
“Come on, Ivy,” I mutter to myself. “You survived your first flat in London with no heating, dodgy electrics, and a neighbour who used to watch TV at full volume at three in the morning. You can survive one night in a tent.”
