The smallest noise could give her away, and with each careful step, she felt the weight of danger pressing on her, like the air itself was holding its breath. Just as she reached the next crate, a voice barked from behind her.
“Hey, where’d you go?” The poacher who had checked the noise was returning, his heavy boots crunching the dirt. Amara froze, pressing herself against the side of the crate, praying her dark clothes would blend into the shadows, that she was invisible in the dim light filtering through the canopy.