Marking the Map

My pencil lead hovered just above the blue curl of the creek. *Tink!*—a dry twig tapped the taut tent fly right above my cap—*gasp!* I froze solid, clutching the stubby wood like a dagger while my eyes darted up at the canvas seam. Silence. Just an acorn rolling off. *Hah—phew!* I dropped my wrist back down, planting the side of my hand against the crinkled paper map. That stubborn gravel cove wasn't slipping out of my memory. I leaned in, braced my elbows against the canvas cot, and pressed hard, grinding a thick graphite ring straight around the shoreline until the paper dented clean under the lead.