Chapter 9

By the next morning, the rhythm of camp life had reasserted itself.

I limped from tent to tent, slower but functional, nodding to students and staff, deflecting concern with a quiet “on the mend.” I gave the day’s briefing seated, my ankle propped on an overturned crate. Everyone fell back into their roles quickly — including Bliss.

Especially Bliss.

If she felt the eyes on us, she didn’t show it. She was sharp, focused, attentive to the students. Not dismissive of me, not cold, but precise. Her questions during our afternoon debrief were clipped, technical. She addressed me the same way she addressed Joseph or Thandiwe — with a kind of polite professionalism that I both appreciated and resented.

I understood what she was doing. I was doing it too.

We didn’t walk together. We didn’t sit near each other during meals. During the boat excursion that afternoon, she chose a seat on the far end, next to Naledi, and didn’t glance back at me once. If the other students noticed, they didn’t say. But Joseph, Kele, and even Naledi exchanged a few glances I pretended not to see.

No one said anything aloud. No one needed to.

There’s something about silence that carries its own kind of pressure — not from gossip or judgment, but from awareness. The kind that settles between two people who know what they’re not doing. Who are choosing not to do it.

I found myself watching Bliss more than I should’ve. Not in the overt way I had before, but with quiet curiosity. How quickly she could pivot from lightness to conviction when talking about habitat corridors. How easily she listened — really listened — to a classmate’s fumbling attempt at a point, then helped shape it into something sharper. Her confidence was growing. Her voice had found its volume.

And still, the boundary held.

That evening around the fire, I sat beside Joseph while Bliss joined a cluster of students nearby. I caught a snippet of her laughter, saw the way her hands moved as she told a story. Someone — maybe Naledi — leaned in close to whisper something in her ear, and Bliss’s eyes turned toward me, just for a second.

It was the briefest look. No smile. No invitation. But it said: I’m still here.

I nodded slightly. That was all I gave her. That was all I could give her.

Back in my tent that night, I sat with my field notes and tried to concentrate, but the words swam. I thought about how precarious the line was. How it had always been there — under our feet, even when we pretended not to see it.

And now, with a single misstep, we’d kicked up the dust around it.

We’d both chosen the same response: Distance. Professionalism. Restraint.

But I couldn’t help wondering if the others — especially the ones who knew us best — saw the effort it took.

And whether any of them were quietly rooting for us to fail.

The camp buzzed with the energy of a group nearing the finish line. Students huddled over laptops and notebooks, scatterings of gear, sketches, and field journals spread across tables like the aftermath of a productive storm. Conversations overlapped — about findings, formatting, team roles for tomorrow’s presentations.

I moved between the clusters, offering guidance where needed, answering questions, mostly letting them own it. This part was theirs. It had to be.

Bliss was working with two other students at the edge of the central platform, seated cross-legged with her notes arrayed in a tidy arc around her. She wasn’t leading, exactly, but there was no mistaking her presence. When one of her teammates hesitated over a hypothesis related to bird migration data, she listened patiently, then gently reframed the idea in a way that made the student beam with understanding.

She didn’t look at me, not directly. But I knew she was aware of my position in the periphery. When I made a loop and ended up nearby, she asked a clear, content-based question. Her tone was respectful, even neutral, and her eyes didn’t linger longer than necessary. I answered in kind. No inflection. No warmth. Just the facts.

But our timing was too crisp. Too rehearsed.

Arthur, leaning nearby with a mug in his hand, caught my eye. He didn’t smirk — Arthur wasn’t the smirking type — but he raised an eyebrow slightly and gave me the faintest shake of his head, like he was watching two stage actors sticking to the script too tightly.

Later, I passed Joseph near the water station. He glanced toward Bliss, then back at me. “She’s a good one,” he said.

I gave a neutral nod. “She is.”

That was all we said. We didn’t have to say more.

That afternoon, the students did a full practice run of their presentations. They stood near a whiteboard rigged up between two poles, explaining data sets and conservation proposals with surprising polish. The team Bliss was part of presented last, and her role was mostly as a synthesizer — the one who brought it all together.

She was composed and articulate, her delivery smooth. Her eyes scanned the group but never sought mine. Still, I felt every word like a pulse against skin.

When the presentations wrapped up, I gave closing comments and encouragements, commending the depth of their analysis and the strength of their teamwork. I praised specific insights, careful not to single anyone out. I used the word rigor more than once.

As the students scattered again — some toward the fire circle, others to their tents to pack or rest — I lingered behind, organizing papers.

Bliss approached with two canteens in her hand. She offered one without a word. I accepted. We stood side by side for a moment, watching the sun lower behind the reeds. The light was diffused and thick, the air beginning to cool.

She didn’t say anything, just took a long drink from her canteen and looked out toward the horizon.

Finally, without looking at me, she said, “You’ve built something really meaningful here.”

I didn’t respond right away. When I did, I kept my voice low. “It only works because people like you show up.”

That was it. Nothing lingered after. She nodded once and walked away, her steps even and sure.

I watched her go, resisting the pull to follow her with my eyes.

Tomorrow, they would all leave. The group would pack up, debrief, and head back to Gaborone. I would stay behind with the mop-up — gear, data backups, final reports.

But even now, as the day wound down, the space between us felt taut. Not from absence, but from everything we hadn’t said.