Not with simple hatred.
That would have been easier.
Colby wrote that he no longer understood his friend.
He remembered Travis as the nineteen-year-old who had laughed beside him on the Elephant Arch trail.
The friend who helped pitch tents.
The friend whose parents were waiting at home.
But the Travis inside Bennett’s camp had changed.
He obeyed.
He prayed when Bennett ordered him to pray.
Worked beside him.
Sometimes repeated Bennett’s rules.
Sometimes helped enforce schedules.
Sometimes received food while Colby went hungry.
And yet—
Colby had also noticed contradictions.
Food occasionally appearing when Bennett was asleep.
A loosened restraint.
Warnings whispered when nobody else could hear.
Small acts of protection.
Colby’s final entry asked the question he never lived long enough to answer:
Is Travis becoming one of them, or is he trying to survive long enough to get out?
Travis stopped reading.
He covered his mouth.
The detective waited.
Finally Travis whispered:
“He never knew.”
“What?”
“That I was pretending.”
His face crumpled.
