Field Trippin
Copyright© 2026 by Sci-FiTy1972
Chapter 4
Week 4 — Britain
Day 1
The land felt older than the stones.
Not grand. Not ceremonial. Just used.
Low hills rolled under a sky that couldn’t decide what it wanted. Grass bent in the wind like it had learned not to resist. Wooden structures crouched close to the earth, smoke leaking from them in thin, patient lines.
No city here.
Just people.
Tyler felt it settle into him almost immediately—the need to watch first. To understand the ground before stepping too hard on it.
Randy whispered, “This place feels like it could disappear if you blink.”
DeAndre shook his head. “Nah. Feels like it’ll still be here after we disappear.”
Eric adjusted his pack. “Language is ... rough.”
The AirPods offered fragments—kin, fire, work, winter.
Nothing elegant. Nothing abstract.
Tyler nodded once. “Then we keep it simple.”
No one argued.
Days 2–3 They learned by proximity.
Who stood where around the fire. Who spoke and who didn’t. How tools were passed—not handed, but placed within reach.
Tyler noticed how often people watched the horizon. How children were kept close without being restrained. How silence wasn’t awkward—it was informational.
He mirrored it.
The others followed without being told.
Language barely mattered here. Gestures did. Timing did. Knowing when to move aside mattered more than knowing where to go.
By the third night, they were tolerated.
Not welcomed.
But not questioned.
Day 4 The weather shifted.
Not dramatically—just enough to matter.
Wind sharpened. Clouds thickened. Smoke hung lower. Conversations shortened.
Tyler felt it in his chest before he understood why.
“This place plans around tomorrow,” he said quietly to DeAndre. “Not today.”
DeAndre nodded. “We’re thinking too short.”
They adjusted. Stayed closer. Helped without being asked. Didn’t linger where they weren’t needed.
It worked.
For a while.
Señor Miller (Uptime-Midday) The sun had shifted enough that the shadows didn’t line up anymore.
That bothered Señor Miller more than it should have.
He stood near the rope line, clipboard tucked under his arm, watching students fan out in predictable patterns—bathroom breaks, shade-seeking, the low hum of boredom setting in.
Predictable was good.
Predictable meant control.
He checked his watch again.
Too many hours.
Not enough movement.
Mr. Miller didn’t panic. He cataloged.
He’d already spoken to site staff. Twice. Calmly. Professionally. He’d walked the perimeter routes students were allowed to use. He’d replayed the last headcount in his mind more times than he liked.
Four names.
Still four.
He made himself smile when a student asked for water. Made himself joke when another complained about the heat.
Inside, the math refused to cooperate.
“You don’t just lose four kids,” he murmured, not realizing he’d said it aloud.
A guide nearby glanced over, concerned. Mr. Miller waved it off.
“I’m fine,” he said automatically. “Just ... accounting.”
He drifted again—without choosing to—toward the freestanding stone wall.
The doorway framed nothing.
It always had.
Still did.
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