The flashlight comes on thirty meters downhill and sweeps the ground, not you.
"You saw us."
Canavan Tuohy says it without heat, the way a man reads out a figure.
"That's the problem. It's not going to stop being the problem if you keep running east."
He is broader than the others and shorter in the neck, ink across the backs of both hands, and he has a folded map in his jacket and an expression like a man being overcharged.
"There's a slope about four hundred meters that way and fencing past it. You'll find the fence in the dark at a run and you'll cut your leg open on it, and then one of us carries you out of here, and I'm telling you now I don't want that."
He tips his head toward the black between the trunks.
"Tynan's already ahead of you. So stop, sit on that log, and let me do the one thing I'm good at, which is the math."