Incursion

The world smelled of dew and woodsmoke.

Donna crouched beside the firepit, stirring the coals back to life with the tip of a stick. Thin threads of smoke curled upward, carrying the faint scent of coffee and ash. Around her, the glade lay hushed beneath a pale morning haze, the kind that seemed to muffle sound and thought alike.

She worked methodically—feeding kindling into the embers, setting a kettle on the grate, brushing crumbs from the stones. Order, even here, made her feel steadier. She had always found comfort in cleaning, in tidying up the aftermath of chaos. There had been plenty of that last night.

Behind her, the tents were slowly coming to life. A zipper rasped open. Someone yawned. Someone else groaned about sore muscles and damp ground.

Donna smiled faintly without turning. "Up and at it,: she called. "If we want breakfast before noon, I'll need help with water and dishes."

Juniper emerged first, hair tangled, eyes bleary, wrapping a blanket around her shoulders. "You've been up for hours,” she said, half-admiring, half-accusing.

Donna shrugged. "Someone has to make sure things don't fall apart."

What she didn't say was that she hadn't slept. Every time she closed her eyes, she Joey, her perfect man. His image, normally soothing, filled her with worry. What had it been like, the moment when Elorae took him away? What was it like for him now? Was he alright? Would he return?

Her boy. Her beautiful, irresistible, impossible Joey.

She told herself he was safe. She told herself she'd done right by encouraging him to go. A mother was supposed to know when to let go. But the ache in her chest said otherwise.

She poured water from the kettle into a tin mug and wrapped her hands around it, drawing warmth from the metal.

Across the clearing, Steve stood sentinel near the center of the glade, staring at the spot where Joey and Elorae had disappeared. His stance was rigid, hands clasped behind his back, jaw set in silent devotion. He looked like a statue—one of those tragic marble figures in old churches, guarding something long lost.

He hadn't spoken since dawn.

Donna watched him for a moment, then turned her gaze toward the women. Serena was helping Indira braid her hair, both of them sitting cross-legged on a blanket. Eliza, meanwhile, was struggling spectacularly with her outfit—knee-high socks already streaked with mud, glossy heels sinking into the damp grass, her skirt far too short for crouching near the fire.

Donna sighed, shaking her head. "Those are not camping clothes, dear."

Eliza straightened, tugging uselessly at her hem. "I know," she said, embarrassed. "They're… what Joey picked for me."

That gave Donna pause. She looked at her—really looked at her—and her irritation softened. There was devotion there. Utter, unyielding devotion. Even now, in the middle of the woods, Eliza wore her obedience like armor.

Donna smiled faintly. "Well, commitment is a virtue. I'll give you that."

Eliza blushed but didn't argue. She went back to fussing with the heel of her shoe, wobbling slightly as she tried to keep her balance. Bianca, still half-asleep, chuckled from her seat near the tents.

Donna busied herself again, setting out plates, rationing granola bars, boiling another pot of water. It kept her hands from trembling. Madison and Aynsley were currently collecting firewood, a task that Aynsley had been more to agree to once she saw Madison volunteer. Those two were a puzzle to Donna, but they loved Joey, and so they were in her good books.

Every now and then, her eyes drifted to the glade's center. The grass there looked untouched, but she swore she could feel something—an unease, a pulse. The air above it shimmered faintly, just enough to make her doubt her eyes.

She told herself it was only the heat from the morning sun.

Then Steve said quietly, "Something's happening."

Everyone turned.

At first, Donna didn't see it. Then she did—the faintest curl of fog, no bigger than a ribbon, rising from the place where Joey had vanished. It wound upward like smoke from an unseen fire, thin and colorless.

"Is that… mist?" Serena asked, standing slowly.

"No ponds nearby," Steve murmured. His eyes didn't blink. "That's not mist."

Donna moved toward them, heart pounding. The fog gathered shape as she watched, swelling and thickening. It wasn't white, not really—more the color of bone, or of paper left too long in the sun.

When it touched the grass, the blades paled instantly, losing their green. Beige spread outward from the contact point, draining color from the earth like ink pulled from a page.

Indira gasped. "What's happening to it?"

"Everyone back," Donna said sharply. Her voice was calm but commanding—the tone she used when her children were young and the oven caught fire. "Back away from the glade. Now."

They obeyed. Even Steve retreated a few paces, though his eyes never left the fog.

It was coming faster now, seeping like water through the soil, coiling in faint tendrils across the clearing. The air grew colder.

Donna's throat tightened. "Don't run," she said. "We stay together. Joey may come back through that. He might need us here."

Eliza whispered, "You think he's on the other side of it?"

"I think," Donna said slowly, "that he's trying to come home."

The fog pulsed, swelling and collapsing like something alive. The beige stain spread another few inches.

Juniper reached for her mother's hand. "Mom… if that's him, if he's trying to come back, what if he's hurt?"

Donna squeezed her daughter's fingers tightly. "Then we'll take care of him. Like we always do."

It was easier to speak than to believe it.

Because deep inside, she could feel something else—a pull, faint but unmistakable. As if the fog itself wanted them closer. Wanted to be touched.

Steve's voice broke the silence. "It's not just fog." He pointed. "Look at the edge."

Donna squinted. Where the colorless haze met the air, there was a shimmer—barely perceptible, like heat on asphalt. The space itself was bending.

"A crack," she whispered.

The others didn't understand what she meant, but she didn't expect them to. None of them could see it clearly, not yet. But she could feel it. A wrongness, sharp and magnetic. A place where the world wasn't quite holding together.

And somewhere beyond it—her son.

"Joey," she murmured.

The fog quivered, almost in response.

The others looked to her, uncertain. Donna stood very still, every instinct torn between stepping forward and pulling everyone away. She could hear her own heartbeat, loud as thunder in her ears.

Then she drew in a steadying breath. "No one goes closer. Not yet. We stay put, and we wait. If this is him coming back… he'll need to see us here."

They nodded. Even Bianca didn't argue.

Donna's gaze stayed fixed on the pale cloud in the glade's center. She imagined Joey's hand reaching through, imagined taking it, pulling him back into the light.

She told herself that was what a good mother did. She waited. She kept things ready. She made sure there was food, warmth, safety. She filled the silence with small, steady acts of care—anything to hold back the fear.

The fog continued to spread, silent and patient, as if the world itself were exhaling.

And Donna, standing at the edge of it, whispered the only prayer she still believed in:

"Come back to me, sweetheart. Please."