The world feels like it's moving in slow motion. As Lily returns to his side, the only thing he can focus on is the smell of blood and rot; it lingers on her clothes like an omen, sinks into the air between them as she closes in and cups his face. It should be a comfort— a blessing, really— but there's no joy to be found.
Static. The streak of red on her jeans. The world falling apart. Why is he trying so hard to survive this? He didn't want to survive this when the world was
Instead, Peter tries to focus on his breathing. With a nod of acknowledgement, his eyes fall closed, stumbling breath reigned in with slow, deliberate inhales through his nose. It'll be alright, he bargains with himself. You've just got to make it to camp.
"We can go," Peter assures, final controlled breath let out long and slow. He knows he won't make it if he never learns how to control his anxiety, but it doesn't feel possible after all he endured at the hands of the cult. In fact, he hasn't even filled Lily in on what happened on the fateful night that he'd disappeared. It may have been reported on in some fashion due to the brutality of the killings and the high profiles of both his parents— people talk when both a respected psychiatrist and an award-winning artist are victims of what looks like a grief-propelled murder-suicide— but he doubts the truth is out there. As long as people will buy the press version, he'll let them believe it.
Through the trees they weave, and by the time they reach camp, Peter's trembling is almost completely gone. Still... that run-in with the shambling corpse has left a sour taste in his mouth. Something doesn't feel quite right.
"You know the dead are in the woods now, right?" Peter asks as he approaches Ronnie, tugging the canned goods he'd scavenged from his bag and offering them to him. Their leader responds with a wide scan of the immediate area, followed by a wave of his hand.
With a hearty smile: "Leave that for us to deal with, Pete! That's the deal."