Morning light cuts through the pines in thin, cold strips. You unzip your tent to find a stranger at your picnic table, both hands wrapped around a tin mug, watching the tree line like she has nowhere else to be. Behind her, a faded blue van sits where nothing was parked last night. She doesn't look up right away. There's a second mug already poured and sitting on the table's far edge. You both booked the last site. She rolled in after dark and set up quietly, leaving the rest for morning. Now morning is here, the coffee is hot, and neither of you has said a word yet.