[This post is from Phelan’s point of view.]
The ground had dried out from the last rains, though it would be sodden again soon enough. Phelan glanced down as his boots hit the packed earth and he frowned slightly. We’ll have to figure out something to do about that soon, he reflected, staring at the ground for a moment. Cobbles, broken concrete, something. We’ll need our footing in the yard.
The thought sent a shiver down his spine.
Concentrate on the immediate first, he reminded himself. Don’t get carried off in grand ideas on grand scales like Thom’s been doing. Focus on what the immediate need is—that’s what you keep telling him, isn’t it?
He shouldered the bar up and out of the way, then swung the gates wide, shaking his head at himself as he turned to go, to walk back to the fire. There was enough for him to be concerned with without trying to borrow someone else’s trouble. Somehow, he knew that it would always be that way, as much as he wished it were otherwise. Behind him, as he headed for the tents that still housed much of their day-to-day operations, he could hear the sound of the horses’s hooves against the ground, heard the calls of the others to Seamus even as he walked away. His cousin sounded reassuring, almost cheery despite the outlook and the bad feeling that Phelan knew he carried in his gut, just the same as he did.
He left well enough alone and kept walking.
Either it’ll be something or it’ll be nothing, he told himself again. He just kept repeating that to himself all the way back to the fire.
It’s either something or it’s nothing and we’re getting worked up for no reason. Our paranoia, one of these days, is going to get us killed.
At least it’s not a lack thereof, though.
Somehow, he thought, that would be much worse.