I bite into my apple for good measure, pretending it’s a meal and not just an appetiser to my inevitable biscuit binge.
I settle back, stretching out inside my sleeping bag, and listen to the storm raging outside. The thunder rolls on, deep and steady, like a giant clearing its throat. The rain pounds against the tent, a relentlesstap-tap-tapthat, if I weren’t currently in the middle of the wilderness, might actually be quite soothing.
For a moment, I let myself believe this is nice. Cosy, even. Like nature’s own white noise machine.
Then—plop.
Something cold and wet lands right on my forehead.
I freeze.
Did… did my tent just spit on me?
I swipe at my face. Yep. Definitely water.
Frowning, I sit up and squint at the tent’s roof. The dim light from my torch catches a small, suspiciously dark patch just above me.
Another plop.
I slap my shoulder where the water just hit. Whatthe—
I run my hand along the inside of the tent and—oh, fantastic. The fabric feels damp. Not just in one spot, either. I shuffle sideways, patting around, and—yep. There’s another wet patch. And another. My sleeping bag? Damp. My backpack? Damp.
Oh, that’s just bloody great.
“Are you kidding me?” I grumble, shifting onto my knees.
I squint harder at the ceiling. Is this tent leaking?
I haven’t even been out here that long! I spent ages putting this thing up! I even double-checked the seams! Sort of. Maybe. Okay, briefly, but still!
Another drop of water lands on my wrist, followed by a very unwelcome drip-drip sound coming from the far end of the tent.
Oh, no. No, no, no.
I grab my torch and shine it around, properly inspecting the damage. The fabric of the inner tent is visibly damp in several places. My sleeping bag is officially soggy. And now that I think about it, the outer tent was flapping suspiciously close to the inner one earlier.
Did I… set this up wrong?
Another gust of wind shakes the whole thing, and I sigh, rubbing my face. Right. That’s it. I am not sleeping in a leaking tent.
Decision made, I yank my backpack toward me and start stuffing everything inside. Clothes? In. Phone? In. Emergency biscuits? Definitely in. My sleeping bag is too damp to pack away properly, so I roll it up and leave it in the tent, hoping it’ll stay semi-dry for the next few minutes.
I wriggle into my rain jacket, yank my hood up, and take a deep breath.
Time to evacuate.
With the rain still hammering down, I unzip the tent, squeeze out, and immediately get smacked in the face by the wind.
“Oh, brilliant,” I mutter, blinking against the downpour.
The tent flaps wildly beside me as I reach down, fumbling with the pegs. The ground is muddy, making them slick, but I tug them free one by one, nearly losing my balance in the process.
The moment the last peg is out, the tent moves dramatically, like it’s personally offended by me. I don’t even have the energy to argue. Luckily the sleeping bag and backpack I left in the semi-dry tent are weighing it down enough that it can’t take off.
Grabbing fistfuls of damp fabric, I half-lift, half-drag the entire tent toward the only bit of shelter I know exists—the small, roofed patio next to the shower shed.
My boots squelch in the mud, my soaked hair sticks to my face, and my arms ache from the effort. But at this point? Dignity is dead. Survival mode is on.
