The rain had let up enough for Wyatt to hear the jungle again - the low hum of buzzing insects, the call of high-sitting birds back and forth to one another - until suddenly, it was gone again. Even the insects disappeared, leaving nothing but the plop of water against the broad green leaves, the little splash of puddles, and the quiet whisper of Max as he slept.

Stiffening, Wyatt straightened up out his easy slouch, eyes narrowing and head tilting as he listened. A hand reached for his knife, tucking the handle against his palm, as he shifted, pushing up into a crouch, weight balanced on the balls of his feet.